What About The Feathers?
by AristaHolmes
Summary: COMPLETE. BONUS-SMUT For Xmas Day. When John is merely trying to find something that Sherlock will eat, Mycroft makes assumptions, and a series of christmassy events proceed. Based loosley on the 12 days of Christmas.
1. Partridge In A Pear Tree

A Sherlock/John fic based, loosely, around the "Twelve Days of Christmas". I will be posting one chapter every two days, and with any luck, this fic should have it's conclusion on Christmas Eve. I Hope you enjoy it,

Love & Hugs, Ari.

Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, and by default Benedict Cumberbatch, I would not be in my bedroom writing fan fiction. I would be in my bedroom doing other, more interesting, things.

* * *

_On the first day of Christmas, My true love sent to me,_

_A Partridge in a Pear Tree._

When Sherlock was in the middle of a case and deep in thought about something, when his mind was miles away and not one ounce of his attention was focussed on you, it was in those moments you could ask him a question and get a simple, straight, truthful answer.

It took John a long time to work this out, because sometimes, when Sherlock seemed to be in that condition, he was partially still in the room, and then your chance at throwing a single question at him failed.

"What's your favourite food?"

"Pears"

John ducked his head as Sherlock blinked back into the room and sent him a sharp glare "_Will _you stop doing that?"

"If you answered my questions like that normally, I wouldn't feel the need, Sherlock" John responded, standing and moving to the kitchen to make tea. He could hear Sherlock grumbling in the living room, complaining that his thought process had been interrupted, but he knew that John was right. After all, his lover didn't throw random questions at him very often.

John, however, had a plan. He'd also already had a sneaking suspicious about the answer to his question.

He wanted to get Sherlock to eat more, and despite his best efforts, it wasn't going exactly… swimmingly. Strategically placed pieces of the detectives favourite food around the flat? Well it was his best option. His last hope.

He was just lucky Sherlock hadn't said soup.

* * *

The first of December, John's money from the Army went into his bank. He paid the water, sewage, and his half of Mrs Hudson's rent, before digging Sherlock's bank card out of the man's wallet without drawing a flicker of attention and paying the electric, gas and the other half of the rent. It was normal now for John to simply pay Sherlock's half of the rent and utilities with the detectives cards, and as he finished he glanced over at the man lying on the sofa with his eyes closed. Sherlock wasn't asleep.

"I'm going shopping, Sherlock"

"Hmm"

That was it, and John sighed. Sherlock said he hadn't needed him for this case, it was simple. Well if it was so simple, John found he kept wishing Sherlock would solve it and get things over and done with. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he missed the taller man's non-stop chattering and even the explosions in the kitchen, or surprising new body parts in the freezer.

He sighed, pulled on his coat, and stole Sherlock's gloves to combat the icy chill before leaving without another word. There wasn't any point to speaking at the moment, and he could only hope this was over by Christmas.

* * *

It was the first of December, and John had been in Afghanistan last December. With no close family to speak of he'd offered to stay so one of his squad could go home and see his new month old little girl.

He'd been in Afghanistan last December, and had forgotten how much bloody fruit supermarkets sell on the lead-up to Christmas. He just wanted some pears!

It shouldn't have been too difficult, even with the six different types sitting on the shelf. Sherlock could have told him everything about each pear, what countries they came from and why which one was best based on the colour of the skins or something, but John simply stared at them, getting jostled by the people who were out on December first, panicking that there would be a food shortage this year and that they simply had to fill their freezers full to bursting.

Eventually, in pure desperation, he added ten of each type to his trolley, and was glad for his 'Christmas Bonus' that would go in his bank later in the month. If he was exceptionally lucky, he may even get the consulting detective sitting at home to eat something tonight, but he wasn't holding his breath.

* * *

He made it home in one piece, despite the good three inches of snow that had fallen over most of the United Kingdom for the last few days, and made his way slowly upstairs only to find Sherlock missing. It took a few moments while he dragged his coat off and hung it up to hear the shower running, and John grinned to himself.

At last! The case was solved.

Moving swiftly and unpacking the selection of pears before anything else, he filled a plastic fruit bowl he'd picked up at the shops, and placed it on the coffee table. A couple of the fruits went on the window sill, the mantle piece above the fire, John even slipped one into the detectives coat pocket when he replaced his partners gloves.

It wasn't much, but it was the best he could do, and as he heard the shower turn off, John simply returned his attention the the rest of the shopping. His phone beeped a moment before Sherlock entered the living room, dressed, with his hair still damp and the Doctor ignored whatever the message was to study the other man's expression as he stared at the fruit on the coffee table.

John smothered a smile and hid his head in the fridge as Sherlock scowled, then glared at John, but he moved fluidly to select one of the ripe fruits and bite into it.

"Sneaky John, very sneaky"

He'd not fooled him, no chance of that, but his lover had conceded the point, and John considered that a win every time. He treated the detective to a beaming smile and the man rolled his eyes but stopped sulking, turning the T.V on and continued munching on the fruit as John opened his text message, still smiling.

**TO: DR WATSON**

**FROM: M HOLMES**

**10.26 AM**

"_Very good Dr Watson, All you need now is a partridge for dinner_

_1 day down._

_M.H."_


	2. Two Turtle Doves

Chapter Two! This was the hardest on for me to twist into a Sherlock/John fic, reviews on my success are greatly appreciated ^.^

Hope you enjoy it,

Love & Hugs, Ari.

Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, and by default Benedict Cumberbatch, I would not be in my bedroom writing fan fiction. I would be in my bedroom doing other, more interesting, things.

* * *

_On the second day of Christmas, My true love sent to me,_

_Two turtle doves, and a Partridge in a Pear Tree._

He was almost done. The tinsel was hanging around the room, and there were fairy lights in the two large windows of 221b Baker street.

When Sherlock got home all hells would break loose, but John was determined to win this argument. He was almost convinced he would.

There was still the tree to decorate, it had taken him the better part of an hour to put the damn thing up, and make sure it was over the blanket he'd put down to catch the needles. All the better for cleaning up after Christmas.

That was if Sherlock didn't use the little tree for an experiment before then. What was he thinking? Decorations were like a red flag to a bull when it came to the consulting detective. Mycroft's assumption that he'd been preparing to start a trail of gifts, following the twelve days of Christmas would have made John laugh expect it hadn't been a bad idea.

He hadn't got a clue what to get Sherlock for Christmas, so this was going to be it, and whether Mycroft knew he'd given John the idea or not, the doctor had texted his thanks back anyway.

By the time he heard his lovers footsteps on the stairs, John had practically finished. The fairy flights flickered off the bright silver tinsel and made the whole tree sparkle, John had scattered lametta in between the baubles and was about to finish when he heard Sherlock open the living room door and the silence was deafening.

"What have you done to my flat?"

The detectives exclamation had John instantly irritated

"Our flat, Sherlock, and I decorated for Christmas, it can come down after the 26th of December"

There was a beat of silence again as John turned to face Sherlock after he'd finished tying a small feathered bird shaped decoration to the tree.

"Do you mean the room has to be like this for another 23 days? I can't work like this!"

"Then you'd better take a holiday Sherlock" John responded with a scowl of his own

"But John!..."

"No Sherlock! Christmas is important"

"Christmas is just another way for companies to extract money from you"

"That's what it's become, not what it is!"

John didn't say another word, didn't dare breath, but he felt the atmosphere relax. He'd actually won, although he wasn't convinced it was going to be worth the sulking he'd have to put up with for the rest of the month.

Sherlock moved closer to the tree, his sharp grey eyes taking in everything and his face glowing orange in the lights the doctor had scattered around the room.

"Turtle-dove"

John blinked. How had he worked out John's plans from staring at the Christmas tree?

"What?"

The detective pointed to the single bird ornament that John had already tied to the tree and nodded "A turtle dove, not very festive is it John?"

John let a small smile slip over his face as he tied the second bird to the tree "more festive than anything else in the room Sherlock.

The detective raised an eyebrow and John felt that rare flush that he usually associated with working something out before his partner

"They're an old symbol for love, because turtle doves mate for life, and since that's what Christmas is really supposed to be about... love, friendship, companionship, trust... you know, not all the shopping, and the food, and the waste..."

Sherlock pulled Johns hands from the trees and cut off his speech with a soft kiss

"Christmas is about love, is it John?"

"Yes..."

Their conversation was stilled by another tender kiss, and both men's breathing picked up as slowly as their touches. Eventually, John pulled back enough to speak, and found himself pressed against wall with no knowledge of getting there

"I haven't put the star on the top"

"Does it matter? It's about love, after all, not stars on top of tree's"

John found he didn't have a valid argument for that, and proceeded to follow Sherlock's example and celebrate the season in a very traditional way, like turtle doves. After all, they really were made for each other.

A few hours later, Sherlock agreed. The tree could stay.


	3. Three French Hens

Not VERY Christmassy, but there's very many options for Three French Hens ^.^ bear with me on this one, the rest of the poem picks up more than a little bit.

Hope you enjoy it,

Love & Hugs, Ari.

**Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, and by default Benedict Cumberbatch, I would not be in my bedroom writing fan fiction. I would be in my bedroom doing other, more interesting, things.**

* * *

_On the Third day of Christmas, My true love sent to me,_

_Three French Hens, Two turtle doves, _

_and a Partridge in a Pear Tree._

"What's this?"

John wasn't really awake yet. One cup of coffee did not constitute an 'awake' state, but Sherlock apparently disagreed. The doctor turned round from where he'd been cooking breakfast to stare at his lover with a weary face

"What is what, Sherlock?"

"This?"

It took John a moment, but eventually he quirked and eyebrow and stared at Sherlock again "I believe it's generally called scrambled egg"

"Very witty, you know I don't like eggs"

John does, he knows very well. He also knows that Sherlock's never tried egg in his life. He also realises that the reason Sherlock has scrambled egg on his plate is because he's given the consulting detective his plate.

With a muttered apology he swaps the plates and and proceeds to try and not fall asleep into his coffee cup.

* * *

It takes an innocent conversation with Mrs Hudson in the afternoon to solve John's dilemma for the third line of his poem. After all, he wasn't going to buy Sherlock three French hens, so the next best thing was eggs. Which the detective wouldn't eat.

"My nephew won't drink soup in casserole's" Mrs Hudson told him, matter of factly, as he complained over what had happened at breakfast that morning, pretending to be insulted by the way Sherlock had reacted, "So I simply used to tell him it was gravy, my niece! She won't touch anything with pepper in! I simply don't tell her it's in there, they never know the difference John... Sherlock eats cakes after all, doesn't he?"

Damn it if his wonderful little landlady didn't have a point!

He beamed, thanked her, kissed her on the cheek and went to grab his coat. John knew exactly where he was going, because if someone was going to try a food for the first time, then you wanted the best quality available to you. Mrs Hudson watched him go and smiled before going to text Mycroft. It seemed the good doctor was taking the poem quite seriously.

* * *

Sherlock was still at Scotland Yard when John got back from the local French farmers market with half a dozen freshly laid eggs. Yes, they cost a small fortune, and yes it was going to be worth every penny when he told Sherlock what exactly went into eggnog. The only other thing the doctor had needed to pick up was a small bottle of rum, and he swiftly set about cooking so that by the time his partner actually arrived home, there would be no evidence of egg anywhere. John laughed to himself softly. He'd invite Mrs Hudson up for a small Christmas drink too, that would make three after all, and fulfil the 3 French hens line of the poem.

When Sherlock arrived home, he found Mrs Hudson and John sitting in the living room, chatting a little louder than usually, and cheerfully greeting him as he walked through the door.

"Sherlock! You look exhausted dear! Come in and sit down, I'll get you a drink … just this once, mind, I'm your landlady, not your housekeeper!"

"How was the Yard, Sherlock?"

He stared at them both and Mrs Hudson moved carefully to the kitchen and the consulting detectives eyes narrowed at them both

"Are you drunk?"

"Tipsy, Sherlock! John made a wonderful Christmas drink but you took quite a while coming home dear..."

John looked rather sheepish, and a little nervous as Mrs Hudson explained their mildly un-sober state, but Sherlock merely sighed and sat down on his sofa.

Their landlady brought in a glass full of John's eggnog for each of them not very big glasses, and it was clear they're been sipping away at the stuff for a while now. Sherlock sniffed at the glass delicately and raised an eyebrow at John

"I finished my shift at the surgery early, got bored... unlike some people, I cook instead of shoot bullets at the wall Sherlock" the doctor teased with a grin and took another sip of his drink

Sherlock took his own tentative sip. He could smell a rat here, something wasn't quite right and he would simply have to deduce the problem

"Very nice, John"

The doctor relaxed noticeably, and Sherlock frowned, eyeing the drink speculatively "You tricked me"

John looked guilty for a split second before he saw the amusement and irritation chase themselves across Sherlock's features "well … you've never even tried them"

"Eggnog... It was an ingenious idea, John... You're brilliant, do you know that?"

Apparently, amusement had won. All three of them laughed, and finished the large pan of alcoholic Christmas drink the doctor had made, Mrs Hudson was eventually helped back to her room, by slightly more sober John, and Sherlock was also half carried to bed. The eggs went down a treat, but the rum in the detectives drink had hit the taller man like a tonnes of bricks and he was, quite simply, pissed.

* * *

Sherlock woke with a sharp groan as he tried to remember what had happened. Who had hit him, and with what?

Why had he woken up when his skull had obviously been bashed in, judging by the amount of pain he was in?

A glass of water was pressed into his hand, and he drank it without question without even opening his eyes. When the glass was refilled and two tablets pressed into his hand, he once again obeyed the unspoken commands without argument or question, and eventually his doctor shut the curtains and blocked out the sunlight

"Go to sleep, Sherlock"

"John?"

He heard the other man pause in the doorway, and Sherlock gathered the last of his strength. Really he was lucky he hadn't been ill yet.

"I _really don't_ like eggs"

* * *

**Last Minute A/N:** _Since this fic should be finishing 23rd of Dec, I decided I really neded an extra chapter to give you guy a Christmas present, so they'll be a bonus chapter being uploaded on Xmas day for you all ^.^ With any luck, it should justify the "M" rating_


	4. Four Calling Birds

A longer chapter this time. The length of this chapter won't be consistent from here on out, don't hold your breath guys. Writing this is more complex than it seems :p

Hope you enjoy it,

Love & Hugs, Ari.

Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, and by default Benedict Cumberbatch, I would not be in my bedroom writing fan fiction. I would be in my bedroom doing other, more interesting, things.

* * *

_On the Fourth day of Christmas, My true love sent to me,_

_Four calling birds, Three French Hens, _

_Two turtle doves, and a Partridge in a Pear Tree._

"Lestrade! I need to look through your cold cases!"

The Detective Inspector looked up from his desk with a frown as the voice gradually made links in his brain. He had never expected John Watson to barge into his office, demanding to look at cases and wondered for a moment if the man had finally snapped living with Sherlock.

Taking in the man before him, he concurred that he wasn't far off the mark, although to a passer-by John seemed perfectly normal Lestrade knew that compared to normal John looked a positive mess.

"If this is another of Sherlock's-"

"Damn it Greg, he's bored and I can't take it any more; I need access to your cold cases, or I'm going to kill him"

"He's been bored before, I'm sure-"

John sighed and the tone made the Detective pause and frown as John pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation

"He's played his violin all night, for three nights straight... He's blown up the microwave, I don't even want to ask him what's on the inside of the oven, I order food and it gets used in his newest experiment that he then looses interest in, when I left he was drilling a hole in the ceiling through to my room, now are you going to _help me_ or not?"

The Doctor was desperate, and Lestrade had worked with Sherlock long enough to know that if even John was desperate for help, the consulting genius was at his worst.

"All right, come with me"

* * *

"What are you looking for exactly?" Lestrade asked softly as he swiped his access card. John had flown through the visitor sign in procedure, obviously desperate to get home with something to distract Sherlock before their entire flat had been destroyed

"Anything complicated, cold cases are all unsolved by Scotland Yard... Oh don't glare, it's true, and he'll get a kick out of it" John sighed wearily, wiping a hand over his eyes again "I'm too tired to be polite Lestrade, I'm sorry... I won't really know till I see it, I sort of know what cases he likes now so I'll just have to … browse, I can take photocopies home, right?"

"Yeah, you'll have to get one of the officer's to do it for you, but I know you're not gonna try sneaking evidence out like Sherlock"

John sighed again, and offered the other man a weak grin "Thanks, I won't be in your hair long"

The Doctor was left alone with a quick acknowledging nod, and a basement full of files. The single computer was obviously used to look up cases, and then John would have to navigate the shelves upon shelves of cold cases that Scotland Yard had sitting around.

With a tired groan, and the horrible feeling he was going to end up with another splitting headache, Dr Watson sat at the computer and waited for it to boot up. The things he did for his lover, honestly.

He was scanning through various case files for much longer than he'd planned to leave Sherlock alone for, and was starting to worry about what, exactly, he'd be returning home to when some details he's just skipped past caught his eye.

Four women. Murdered. Sniper rifle. They'd been shot while on the phone, and the checking of their phone records after the event suggested they'd been on the phone for a long time. Police were stumped, and had no leads as the bullets had shattered on impact, giving them precisely nothing. They hadn't even been able to find a link between the women.

Perfect. John looked up the files number and went to find it. To be honest, from the sounds of it, he couldn't understand why Sherlock hadn't been called in at the time, it was relatively recent series of murders, barely 2 years old.

He must have looked worse than he'd thought because no sooner had he accosted an officer to photocopy the files for him, than they were being pushed back into his hands, along with a cup of Police strength coffee.

Now to face whatever Sherlock had done to their flat while he'd been out. John stared at the coffee, and thanked the young officer profusely, leaving without even stopping to see Lestrade, he'd have to remember to buy the Inspector something rather special for Christmas.

* * *

The flat was silent when John got home, and he immediately began worrying. Moving slowly up the stairs, the tension in his body mounted as he advanced.

John carefully pushed the living room door open with his foot, ever wary for pranks, traps, or half finished experiments his lover was prone to leaving about, but the sight that met him almost stopped his heart in his chest

"Sherlock!"

The man in question was so surprised by the Doctor's entrance that he promptly toppled off the chair he'd been standing on in the middle of the living room and managed to let himself fall onto the soft sofa

"John! You're back! Gods I'm so bored my brain must be shutting down, I didn't even hear you come in-"

"You're damn right it's shutting down, what the hell did you think you were doing?" The Doctor shouted, waving an arm at the length of rope Sherlock had hanging from the hole he'd been drilling in the ceiling before John had left.

It had been fashioned into a crude looking noose and Sherlock glanced at it from his sprawled position on the sofa "Oh relax! It's just an experiment, and perfectly safe now you're back, if you'd just..."

"No, Sherlock"

The detective had let the first interruption go, but the second was getting annoying and he scowled at his partner, and began cataloguing his appearance;

_Tired eyes, violin. Clothes don't look as neat as usual, well he did leave in a hurry this morning, his short hair looks a mess, is it windy outside?_ A quick glance and _no, so he didn't bother brushing it before he left, the appalling scent of police coffee and a folder of paper under his arm..._

"You went to see Lestrade?"

John wilted, too tired to bother continuing the argument over Sherlock's latest experiment and merely passed over the files.

"You genius, John... These are old, the cold cases? He won't let me in there, probably worried I'd embarrass him... hmm..."

"Worried you'd steal files more like..." John muttered, moving to the kitchen to make up the biggest mug of tea he could manage, knowing that Sherlock would be absorbed for a little while at least. In the time it took John to make them both tea and return to the living room, Sherlock was pulling on his coat

"Come on John! This is fascinating, I need to see the locations of the murders..."

"See you later then, Sherlock"

If he hadn't been so tired, John would have found the look of shock of his partner's face hilarious, as it was he simply curled into his chair, and sipped his tea.

"You're not coming?"

Sherlock almost looked like an abandoned puppy, and for a moment John felt guilty, but he was falling asleep where he was sitting

"You don't need me, and I got the file to keep you occupied Sherlock... You go and be brilliant, and I'm going to use the short time it will take you to solve the case to catch up on the sleep you've deprived me of"

Sherlock flushed once at the compliment, and once again before ducking his head at his lover's reference to his three day stint of violin playing. He finished tying his scarf round his neck and moved to stand in front of the seated half-sleeping John and gently replacing the tea mug with a soft kiss

"Sorry"

John blinked, and watched Sherlock's long coat swish from the room. Had he imagined that soft murmur? Unlikely... but he wouldn't mention it, or the warm glow it had drawn. It almost made the sleep deprivation worthwhile.

* * *

It had taken Sherlock a little under 24 hours to solve the case. Swift visits to all four murder locations had helped his mind sort out locations of the bodies and possible trajectories for the shooter. He'd missed John's warmth by his side, but at least his thoughts were distracted. How dare the criminal class take a vacation just because of a bit of snow!

Through more than a few of his underground contacts, and one or two unsavoury characters who owed him favours, Sherlock had managed to determine that all four woman had been employed by a business that offered phone sex, which is why they'd been on the phone at the time of their murders.

Two years after the fact, and with nothing for ballistics to go on, there was very little chance of catching the murderer, but Sherlock's theory was that their killer had been on the other end of the phone with them at the time of the shootings, and the length of the phone calls suggested that the victims had been toyed, subjected to mental torture, before being executed.

They weren't serial murders after all, the consulting detective had explained in a tone that suggested it should have been obvious, they were serial executions.

Case… well as closed as it was going to get.

John sat in front of his laptop, staring at his blog. He'd written up the case for Sherlock, as he always did, but hadn't found a title yet. Then he suddenly remembered Mycroft's text at the beginning of the week and the poem he was trying to complete for Sherlock by Christmas day, and grinned, shaking his head softly and setting fingers to keys.

_Case Notes; Four Calling Birds, by Dr. J. Watson._


	5. Five Gold Rings

**WARNING: SMUT AHEAD**

My favourite Chapter to date! And the one I've most been looking forward to writing.

I'm sorry for any mistakes in this chapter, I'm now running behind because of computer problems (I'm highjacking my mums computer to get this to you BE GRATEFUL DAMN IT :p) and I'm also absolutely exhausted... had to do Christmas shopping today, I sometimes hate this time of year ...

Anyways this one I REALLY hope you enjoy,

Love & Hugs, Ari.

Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock, and by default Benedict Cumberbatch, I would not be in my bedroom writing fan fiction. I would be in my bedroom doing other, more interesting, things.

* * *

_On the Fifth day of Christmas, My true love sent to me,_

_Five Gold Rings_

_Four Calling Birds, Three French Hens,_

_Two Turtle Doves, and a Partridge in a Pear Tree._

John stood by the door as he watched the chaos ensue. Sherlock had solved a new case, or he would have if any of the Scotland Yard team could find a single piece of evidence confirming the consulting detective's theory.

The doctor bit his lip as he studied the mounting irritation on Sherlock's face. Donovan was sighing audibly, and Anderson was beginning to look smug, and John knew, from experience, that it wouldn't be long before the snide remarks started

"There's nothing here Sherlock!" Lestrade's voice could be heard calling through from another room of the small flat.

"There must be! He would keep the mementoes at home so he could look at them, relive the experience through them!"

Silence, except for the rustle of the investigation team, settled again, but not for long, and John sighed

"What are you doing Anderson?"

"Well... it's a jewellery box..."

"And how would he explain to his partner the sudden collection of wedding rings on her dressing table?"

"It's better than standing in the middle of the room sulking because you're wrong"

"I am _not_ wrong...!"

The bickering had started. The problem was, Sherlock's theory was correct. Everyone here knew that, whether they wanted to admit it or not.

The man they had in custody was guilty. He'd played word games, and danced around the issue but they had everything from him short of a statement. But they couldn't take their, honestly flimsy, case to court without solid evidence, and the only evidence they could get now was the wedding bands the serial killer had taken from each of his victims.

Everyone in the investigation team was desperate for Sherlock's genius to be right this time, and for once it seemed to be failing. Tensions were getting higher, tempers were growing shorter, and just to put the icing on the cake, it had been snowing heavily.

If James Martin had hidden his trophies in the garden they had no hope of finding them, and this was in the forefront of everyone's mind.

John simply stayed out of the way, leaning against the closed front door and surveying the pandemonium of mess the search was producing and the row between Sherlock and Anderson that Donovan was now joining in on. He could see Lestrade roll his eyes and slowly make his way from the other end of the flat to break up the argument, hopefully before it got any worse, barking orders as he moved which were promptly ignored by all involved.

The doctor's eyes surveyed the room for possible hiding places that weren't exactly obvious. You had to be a genius to hide anything that wasn't regulation in the army, and John _had _successfully snuck his Browning handgun out of the local barracks.

Shoe cupboard? Hollow heels, possibly, but it would be rather obvious to his partner. Under the bathroom sink? Maybe, but the police were checking there now, and since it was a popular hiding place for drugs, he didn't think they'd skip it. Hollow walls? No, there was only one wall in the whole flat that could have been worked on for that, and they'd already questioned the neighbours about any loud noises coming from the flat, their answers being negative.

John frowned as his eyes scanned the room once more, his thoughts whirling and he thought, for a moment, that he might know what it felt like to be Sherlock, as the man himself threw his arms in the air and stalked towards his partner, slumping against the door next to the distracted doctor.

John's eyes had landed on the dressing table. Yes, Sherlock had been right, the man's partner would have easily spotted and questioned a collection of wedding rings, on the other hand, it would be the perfect place to hide them because it would be the last place the police, or a genius like Sherlock, would look.

As a child, Harry had quite often taken any pocket money their parents had given John, so he'd had to find somewhere to hide it that his sister wouldn't look. Into a slim envelope John had put his pocket money, and whenever he'd saved enough he'd ask one of his parents to change the coins for a note, returning the money to the envelope to save and to hide.

Sherlock had been speaking, complaining more like, about the incompetence of the police force in general, and the faults of Anderson and Donovan in particular, when John suddenly pushed himself off the closed front door without and word and moved across the room, eyeing the dressing table with narrowed eyes, and the look of someone who was dissecting a particularly dangerous explosive.

He stood for a few moments with his hands tucked into the high pockets on his warm bomber jacket while he stared at the dressing table, eyes still narrowed and flickering. He wondered if it was too simple, too easy, and not slightly creepy, that this serial killer had the same hiding place as his childhood self.

He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, filled with curiosity, but whereas he'd berated Anderson for showing interest here, the consulting detective trusted that John had something more than an interest in checking through the obvious draws and jewellery boxes on the dressing table's top.

Superstition had saved the serial killer thus far, but John wasn't a very superstitious person. He pulled his hands from his jacket and spun the large mirror in its stand so the back was showing and frowned at the small catches holding the wooden back in place. They were very tight.

He heard someone behind him hiss, and mutter something about "Seven years bad luck...!" and John couldn't stop the slow grin from creeping over his face. The speaker was right, and that's exactly what Mr Martin had been banking on.

With a firm hand on the glass front of the mirror, John used a short nail to slide the clips over the wood and loosen the back of the mirror, prising it off carefully, and turning, only to find Sherlock already at his shoulder.

The consulting detective wasn't looking at their prize, but at John with such a deep, soul searing heat that the doctor flushed and ducked his head, pulling the taped envelope from the back of the glass mirror with gloved hands.

It took Lestrade moments to snatch it away and carefully open the paper packet to reveal five gold wedding bands, and John risked a look at Sherlock again, who had yet to speak a word, and wouldn't have been able to over the investigative team's celebrations anyway.

"You coming back to the station to inform Martin, Sherlock?"

Lestrade broke into their locked gaze, and the consulting detective turned to Lestrade and shook his head firmly in the negative

"No, you don't need me there"

John had a sudden rush of worry that Sherlock was angry that he'd solved it, but then the taller man glanced back at him and the heat in his gaze drove the thoughts from the doctors' mind. He'd dismissed Lestrade quickly, and wasted no time in tugging John outside to hail down a cab.

* * *

Back at Baker Street, the door to their flat barely closed before it started, with Sherlock's tall thin body pressing John's shorter frame into the door and pulling gasps from him in moments as Sherlock ground their hips together slowly, teasingly...

"_**Do you know how incredibly stunning you were, working it all out?"**_

Clothes were pulled from them both with slim dexterous fingers that John had no hope of following. As much as he hated letting Sherlock get on with it, with no input from himself, and as much as he hated not reciprocating the teasing touches on his lovers body, Sherlock wasn't leaving John much choice as he made the doctors body sing.

"_**That mind of yours, so perfectly normal and yet so utterly brilliant..."**_

The sound of flies unzipping ripped through the air and had John gasping, and his dark blue eyes snapping open (when had they shut?) to stare at the enthralled detective before him.

Apparently solving the case had more of an impact on the man that John had expected. Not that he was complaining. He brought his hands up, trailing along pale arms, to pull Sherlock to him, but the detective pushed his wrists back against the door, and smirked as John bit his lip and suppressed a moan.

Message received and understood.

"_**Inside your head... it's a puzzle, a mystery..."**_

Sherlock slid down to the floor, pulling trousers and pants with him and kneeling lightly before John, grinning at the clenched hands that were pressed against the door in a bid, he knew, not to grip long curly locks of dark hair, and the doctor's muscles had gained a fine tremor of anticipation that Sherlock took a moment to relish in.

"_**I'll never tire of trying to figure you out, John, you're perfect..."**_

Hot breath ghosted over John, and the man shivered as his lover grasped his hips, long fingers moving over his skin and finally dragging a long suffering groan from the doctor as certain parts of his body jumped in suppressed excitement, drawing a dark chuckle from his lover, and another gust of warm air over his now weeping head.

"_**You're never going to let me get bored"**_

John's brain stopped working as the detective sank the shorter man's cock into his warm mouth, and John's cries and whimpers became worse than incoherent. His fight to keep his hands against the door was lost, and his fingers tangled in the detective's hair, making the man chuckle, and pulling another deep throated groan from the doctor as he knees began to buckle.

Only Sherlock's hands on his hips, pressing him into the wood of the door, kept him upright as that talented tongue swirled around him, focussing John's attention onto a single point on his body; his breathing ragged, his hands clenching and his vision fading out.

Sherlock's head bobbed, and Johns hips struggled against the spidery restraints, fighting to snap forward and bury him in that delicious heat that had melted his mind beyond anything more than pure instinct.

Between the euphoric high of solving the case, Sherlock's heated glances and the dedicated attention he'd been receiving since they came through the door, John was never going to last long, and his rapid keening cries were swiftly confirming that fact.

Strong hands gripped slim shoulders hard enough to bruise moments before the good doctor spilled himself down Sherlock's throat. The consulting detective merely hummed softly, and swallowed greedily as the man above him gasped for air.

When John could finally see straight again, they were still in the same positions; Sherlock pinning him to the door, John holding himself upright on his lovers shoulders, and Sherlock beaming at him like a contented cat, and John had to huff a laugh before loosening his grip and leaning down to thoroughly kiss the other man senseless. He was the one who felt boneless after all.

A final whisper sealed the evening. _**"I love you..**__**."**_

_**

* * *

Ooooo... First smut, How'd I do? You guys need to be thanking my good friend Crystal for the minimal delay on this chapter. She had this one on her computer, so she was able to send it back to me for me to upload for all of you with only a 1hr25min delay in my schedual ^.^ So leave her a message in any reviews you give, and I'll send you back a Criterion Coffee ;)  
**_


	6. Six Geese a Laying

Review Reply: Anonymous: The spelling mistakes? I did say in my A/N I was exhausted. As for the bold speech, that was there for a reason. It was to emphasise the meaning behind the words, and it also left it open to reader interpretation as to whether Sherlock was SAYING the words or THINKING them. My formatting always has a reason behind it. Otherwise, I'm glad you enjoyed it ^.^

* * *

**A/N:** Sorry, sorry, I'm gonna try and catch up. Shopping, Christmas and Brothers have caught up with me this week, not to mention it was bloody hard to make this chapter interesting. I only really finalised the plot for this chapter about 5 hours before I started writing it... :/

I'm sort of happy with it, I just hope you guys like it better than I do. On another note, this chapter has been written, and then posted. I have read through for mistakes only once, and I know for a fact that with my writing that's not enough. There will be mistakes in this chapter.

I'll COME BACK and fix them, but I wanted you to have this chapter.

Love and hugs,

Ari x

**

* * *

**

_On the sixth day of Christmas, My true love sent to me_

_Six geese a laying_

_Five gold rings_

_Four calling birds, Three French hens_

_Two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree._

**

* * *

**

It was going to be a very long day. Sometimes John could just tell. Sometimes he would wake up to the fizz of an experiment gone wrong, or just that feeling of something slimy crawling up his spine that told him the day was going to be long and troublesome.

Today however, as he walked through the door with the weeks shopping, he had the added help in making this deduction of Mrs Hudson's dulcet tones as she scolded Sherlock.

"I'm bored Mrs Hudson... and the wall-"

"The wall is going to be added on to your rent, that's what the wall is Sherlock! There's only so many times my heart can take this!"

"You're heart is in perfect working ord-"

"Well it won't be for much longer will it, enough Sherlock, I won't-"

"Oh you _won't_? Well that changes everything!"

"Don't get snarky with me young man! Permission to shoot the walls is not in your tenancy agreement, and I could evict you for the amount of damage you do to the place!"

"You wouldn't get another person to rent-"

"-And don't you think I won't be informing Doctor Watson of the damage you've done to his room since he went out"

Silence fell as John pushed the door to the flat open with the toe of his boot, to find them both standing in the living room, barely a foot apart and almost yelling at each other. An extremely long day.

"John..."

"I don't want to know what happened in my room..." He paused as he caught sight of the new target drawn on the wall in shaving foam, with two bullets in the centre and shook his head before heading into the kitchen without another word.

He could actually hear the smugness rolling off of Mrs Hudson as she threw the parting comment of "I'll leave this in Doctor Watson's capable hands then!" and swiftly left the flat in a cloud of her rose scented perfume.

John sighed. He'd never hear the end of this, from either of them, no matter which of them he sided with. On the other hand, Sherlock could make his life infinity more difficult than Mrs Hudson... of course; their landlady could always evict them. Decisions, decisions...

The doctor silently put the shopping away, he made tea, he could feel curious grey eyes on his back but he didn't pay them any attention for once, and by the time he brought the tea into the silent living room Sherlock was like a coiled spring.

"Are you angry?"

It still amazed John sometimes how Sherlock could deduce everything about him, but still struggle when it came to what emotion he was feeling. Sure, sometimes he hit it spot on, but times like this?

"No, not surprised either, more disappointed that you couldn't find something other than the wall to shoot..."

Sherlock scowled, pouted and flopped onto the sofa "It had it coming"

"Right" John took his own seat and relaxed back into the sofa cushion, shutting his eyes and cradling the mug in his hands a he relaxed slowly with a sigh, occasionally bringing the cradled mug to his mouth for a slow sip of the warming drink.

**BANG!**

Tea slopped everywhere, John was tense as a bowstring, and the adrenaline pumping through him had his eyes wide and his breathing rapid and shallow before his eyes focussed on Sherlock, aiming another bullet at the wall

"That is it!"

The bloody genius actually looked surprised as John stood from the chair, struggling not to throw his now mostly empty teacup onto the coffee table, and standing while he shook the sticky liquid from his hand.

"Problem?"

"Yes there's a bloody problem! You cannot keep shooting the walls!"

"Well what else-!"

"Shut up Sherlock!"

John had already dialled the number he'd been looking for on his mobile, and Sherlock sat up with his eyes narrowed in that way John knew meant he was trying to work out his motives.

When whoever the doctor had called answered, an easy grin flashed across the mans features, and John wasn't sure whether he was pleased or disturbed that this fact caused Sherlock's hands to tighten on the still loaded gun

"Yes! Long time no see; I didn't know you were...?"

"..."

"Oh right ... of course, look, Dan... I was just wondering if my partner and I could pop down for a couple of hours..."

"..."

"Well, we're in London so if we left now we could probably be there for lunch..."

"..."

"Sure! One's fine, we'll have lunch somewhere and head over"

"..."

"All right then, we'll see you this afternoon, my best to your dad?"

By the time John hung up the phone and turned his, once again stern, eyes back to Sherlock; the consulting detective was sulking against the back of the sofa.

"Come on, we're going out"

"Where?"

"Somewhere you can shoot things, useful things" John threw Sherlock's coat at him, and tugged his own on before throwing the taller mans scarf and gloves at him as well. Sherlock was still sulking, but John had caught the sudden shine to his eyes; he didn't know where they were going or what was going to happen, and the unknown had intrigued him.

They headed down the stairs, Sherlock with a bounce in his step again, and out onto the cold winter streets

"First, Sherlock, I need to hire a car" John added, tugging his coat close, and checking again to make sure that his partner had left the browning indoors "and you're going to pay for it"

**

* * *

**

John may not be able to deduce a person's history from their car, their love life from their after shave, or their alcoholic sister from their mobile phone, but Sherlock was fast becoming certain that his lover was a pure genius in his own right; even if that genius only seemed to be useful in dealing with Sherlock, or if Sherlock seemed to be the only person who could see it.

If anyone else had screamed at him, demanded he stop shooting the walls, and even arranged an alternative entertainment without consulting him, Sherlock would have scowled, crossed his arms, and continued shooting the walls.

Something about John was different. It had always been different, from the moment he'd walked into the lab at Bart's. From the moment he'd listened to Sherlock's deductions with amazement, how he'd asked about the method behind the madness. How he'd not corrected Sherlock on his mistake until the consulting detective had asked him.

Sister! Always something...

There was something about John Watson that made Sherlock want to keep him happy, to make him smile, and that was why Sherlock found himself driving out of London after hiring a car, and eating lunch in a small restaurant in Kent, where they actually had to pay for their food, and where John still wouldn't tell him why they were there.

After an hour and a half car journey of Sherlock's incessant questions, and extreme boredom, the fact that John had managed to not let anything slip was something Sherlock was grudgingly impressed with.

The fact that the doctor seemed to be rather smug was not something Sherlock was impressed with, so he settled with an expression somewhere in the middle, and tempered it with an edge of boredom as he picked at a chicken salad and gazed out of the window of the restaurant they were having lunch in.

"You might as well eat, you don't have a case, and the food here's really good"

Sherlock scowled at John but the doctor wasn't even looking, focused on devouring his own lunch

"I'm bored, not hungry, and I don't find that eating alleviates the boredom enough to condone it as an appropriate solution"

John levelled a stare at him that had Sherlock swallowing a single mouthful of chicken salad before the army doctor nodded in concession and stood, leaving money for their meal on the table.

"All right then, it's nearly one anyway..."

"Is it important we're there on time? Is this a booked appointment?"

Sherlock had swooped from the restaurant and was heading for the car eagerly, as John chuckled

"Not particularly, but it is polite when we said we would be there for one"

"You, John, you said..." Sherlock was sulking again, he'd been hoping to gain some information if their location required a booking in time, but...

"Remind me not to surprise you again"

The car door slammed shut, and the doctor drove out of the car park in silence. If Sherlock apologised for his behaviour, neither of them ever mentioned it outside of the vehicle.

**

* * *

**

It took an embarrassingly long moment for Sherlock to connect "Peterson's Fowl Farm" to John's comment of "shooting something useful".

"Seriously?"

"It's better than the living room wall, Sherlock" John muttered as they parked, and a tall muscular man erupted through the farm's main entrance heading for the car swiftly as the doctor and detective got out.

"John! Christ man, you're looking well!"

_He's relaxing, but the army stance is returning, so military friend, close relationship, so they served together, probably knew each other before their tour too, judging from John's knowledge of this ... farm..._

"Thanks Dan, you're looking well yourself... Keeping in shape, you intending to go back?"

"'course, they need all the help they can get, you know that... Surely you'd be back out there now if it weren't for that..."

_John was clearly touchy about his injury at some point then, understandable. This 'Dan' lacks tact, and yes, there John relaxes, he __does__ know this man well, well enough to ignore the insensitive comment anyway..._

"Dan, this is Sherlock Holmes... my partner"

_Not homophobic, always a bonus..._ Crossed Sherlock's mind as Dan shook his hand warmly

"Five years old"

Dan blinked at Sherlock for a moment, his hand still wrapped around Sherlock's hand and he frowned

"How long have I known John? Yeah, that's about right" Sherlock's comment rolled off of Dan like water from a duck and the tall man blinked surprised, and glanced at John just in time to catch his grin

"Is this an army thing? Are you all simply incapable of reacting in anything other than blatant acceptance?"

John simply shrugged, and they headed after Dan who'd already started leading the way towards the house, babbling something along the lines of introducing them to 'dad'

"I think if he'd met you at any other time, Dan would probably have reacted like Lestrade..."

"Reluctant awe, but ultimately irritated with me?"

"Yeah about that" John chuckled and shrugged "You're with me, and Dan was part of my squad, that's the army thing Sherlock, not general acceptance but general trust in each others judgements in a person or a situation... there's no time for debate out in the field..."

They'd reached the house a good few minutes after the excited Dan, and by the time the couple had made their way inside, John's friend had already dragged his father in from the actual farm to meet them.

The man's hair was pure white, and he seemed to have a perpetual scowl carved onto his features. This wasn't an army man, and Sherlock could see that this farm had been his life from the thin, wiry strength he had, that was the complete opposite to his son's clearly trained build. He wouldn't have been surprised to find that Dan's father had been brought up on a piece of land like this.

"So you're that Doctor then"

Dan fell silent, and Sherlock noticed John tensing again, so he did what he did best when faced with anyone John knew and he didn't. In an attempt not to embarrass his partner, he simply scowled.

"Yes, Sir"

Silence reigned for a moment, before Peterson senior snorted through his nose "Right then, free reign on the geese then Dan says?"

"If that's all right with your, Sir..."

"You sure you're safe with a weapon after that injury you got?"

The first thing Sherlock's brain noticed was the way Dan paled and winced. The second thing was the dark look that passed over his lovers face, and third thing was the slight smugness around Peterson seniors eyes and following that was a quick succession of movements. John twitched forward a single step, Dan shook his head quickly from behind his father, and Peterson seniors back straightened in response to John's motion

"I suggest, Sir, that you set a limit on the number of birds I can take home..."

"I don't need to set a limit, no _one_ visitor's a danger to the number of birds out there..."

"We will be" Sherlock's deep voice cut into the tension of the room, and Mr. Peterson's eyes flickered to him with a frown before he huffed

"Fine then, three a piece... Most are lucky if they leave with one, so there's no danger you'll both hit three"

He sent one more measuring glance at John's small form before he turned and left, merely telling his son to set them up with shotguns.

Dan practically wilted once his father had left and apologised almost continuously as he set the two men up with their guns, and wished them luck, swiftly adding that he didn't think they'd need it when he caught sight of Sherlock's black glare.

**

* * *

**

"What was all that about?"

"Hmm? Oh, you mean Mr Peterson?"

Sherlock was silent as he eyed a flapping bird, before deciding against it

"No, John, I meant the wind suddenly changing directions... of course I meant Mr Peterson"

"You mean you can't _tell_, Sherlock?"

***BANG***

"Don't make me hurt you"

John chuckled as they crunched through the frozen grass to retrieve the first bird that the doctor had just brought down

"Well, I was the medic for my squad... There's only one medic in a squad, and we were under fire one day, we were most days as you could probably guess..."

***BANG***

"Good Shot..."

"Thank you John, please continue"

"Well, Dan had a brother, a twin brother, also in the forces, and also in our squad... they were pretty close too, they could practically communicate without words, they were the perfect scouts..."

"**BANG***

"The only thing not safe when you have a gun in your hands John, is whatever you're intending to shoot"

Sherlock's words had their intended affect, and the tension in his partners' shoulders gradually leeched away and John removed his glare from the goose that had escaped him to send Sherlock that small sweet smile he adored with a quiet "thanks"

"So, his twin?"

"Charles... We were under fire, and both of them were hit..."

***BANG***

"Two one to me Doctor Watson"

"Very clever, Holmes..."

***BANG***

"But, I believe they call that an equaliser?"

Sherlock scowled, and John continued his story, as they continued their slow wander through the frozen Peterson's lands and collecting their prizes as they went

"So, they were both hit, but I could see from where I was the Charles was already a dead man, there was nothing I could do for him... Like I was trained to, I moved onto someone I could save, which happened to be Dan"

***BANG***

***BANG***

"Dan was complaining of pain where I knew he hadn't been shot Sherlock, but I treated the pain in his legs anyway, the legs Charles had grenade damage from... I administered morphine for the pain and managed to save his life"

"Which is why you have your own personal shooting range?"

John chuckled and nodded "Yes, although when I explained all this to Mr Peterson, the only thing he heard was that I'd not helped Charles, I'd seen the damage done and moved on... Dan gets me the shooting here for saving his life, and I make sure not to use it very often"

They'd collected their prizes and were already on their way back to the farm by the time John had finished his story but at the sudden low note to his voice, Sherlock stopped them and pulled the doctor round to face him

"You said yourself John, you couldn't have done anything for Dan's brother..."

"I could have administered an overdose of morphine and put him out of his pain, instead he bled out after having his legs blown off below the knees"

Sherlock swallowed, he wasn't squeamish around corpses but someone being alive after that sort of damage was enough to test even his control "Then you may not have had enough to save Dan, it could have killed both of them... You know this, don't let a father's loss cloud that medical certainty"

John nodded, and rested his head against Sherlock's shoulder in a brief but warm embrace. He felt safe stood in the freezing Kent weather, wrapped in his lovers arms and Sherlock sighed into the doctor's hair before they both released the other and made their way slowly back to the farm house, merely enjoying each others company

**

* * *

**

John had insisted the farm house pluck the birds for them, and while they'd waited the doctor had made a point of having tea with his old army squad member, and pointedly ignored the sour glares and sharp comments of Peterson senior.

Sherlock, however, had taken great pleasure in laying out the six perfectly shot geese before the man and simply smiling, knowing that the man didn't dare say another word about his partner's abilities

When, as they'd been dragging their coats on to leave, Mr Peterson had snarled "What are you going to do with six bloody geese anyway?" Dan had glared along with John as the doctor calmly replied that he planned to eventually eat them, but in the meantime they had a fully functioning freezer at home that would save the birds for whenever they wanted them.

Deprived of one last argument Mr. Peterson had stalked from the room, and John and Dan had exchanged a relatively cheerful goodbye.

They were halfway home in the warm car before a sleepy Sherlock finally admitted that shooting the geese had been more fun than inflicting damage at an inanimate wall, and by the time they'd reached 221B Baker street, Lestrade had another case for them to look over the following morning.

Life was good.


	7. Seven Swans a Swimming

**In response to Anonymous reviewer for Chapter 6:** I know your review was intended to be helpful but I _**REPEAT**_ for the sake of your eyesight that I'm behind on my stories and that there _**ARE ERRORS**_. On top of that, I'm British, so I haven't got a blazing clue what "periods" translates as... When I speak to my best friend again (who happens to be American) I'll ask her to clarify, until then, I won't be changing anything :p

* * *

I'd also like to point out I wrote this at 2.51am, so I may be more than a little irritated at the moment due to lack of sleep... *grumbles* everyone has bad days.

Love & Hugs, Ari x

* * *

_On the seventh day of Christmas, My true love sent to me_

_Seven Swans a Swimming, Six geese a laying_

_Five gold rings_

_Four calling birds, Three French hens_

_Two turtle doves, and a partridge in a pear tree._

It was bloody freezing. John shivered, and shoved his hands into the pockets of his jacket. He sent a sideways glance at Sherlock and scowled. The taller man was perfectly fine, long warm coat, scarf, leather gloves, and the freezing temperature combined with their languid stroll round the park had given the consulting detective's pale features a bright red flush to his face that lead John's mind back to the events of the morning; Warm, and in bed, and a delightful way to wake up his partner.

He checked his sudden grin, and glanced at Sherlock again before sighing. He needn't have worried, the taller man was so deep in thought, John could have walked them into the pond and he wouldn't notice.

When he'd suggested that a walk might help Sherlock think, he honestly hadn't been expecting Sherlock to take him up on the idea. It was barely above freezing and he'd not really wanted to leave the warm central heated flat, but it was walking or listening to another hour of that violin.

The violin wouldn't have lasted another hour, so when Sherlock had agreed to his desperate snap of "For gods' sake! Let's get out of this flat before one of us dies!" John had jumped at the chance. The temperature not being ideal for a walk hadn't really occurred to him until his fingers started turning numb.

* * *

Onto his second cup of coffee from the small stand situated near the middle of the park, john was starting to wonder if Sherlock's brain had simply frozen in the frigid temperatures. The man didn't seem to be reacting to everything, merely keeping his eyes to the ground and following John silently, with the tiny frown between his eyebrows that showed he wasn't really present. John could ask him anything now and get a truthful answer, but really the doctor would rather Sherlock solve the damn case.

Although, that wasn't entirely true. As they started their fourth circuit round an impromptu football match that was now coming to an end John went over the case in his own mind for lack of anything better to do.

It had seemed relatively straight forward, Sherlock had flown though his deductions, almost faster than his usual babble of information, not even wasting breath to berate Donovan and Anderson, but Lestrade asked him for a motive, and it had stopped the genius in his tracks.

Sherlock couldn't find a motive for Mr Osman to murder his wife. It was clear that they'd loved each other, that they'd been married many years, from their possessions and photographs happily, and it had stumped Sherlock. He'd, reluctantly, told Lestrade he'd have to think about it, and the inspector told him he'd need an answer within 48 hours.

John sighed when he saw Sherlock was still out for the count and checked his watch. He'd finished his last coffee nearly half an hour ago, and his fingers were starting to loose feeling again. Time for another one then.

* * *

With a new cup of coffee and a couple of bacon sandwiches, John had found an empty bench by the large pond to sit at while he ate. He'd not even bothered asking Sherlock if he wanted to eat, they had a case so he already knew the answer.

The park was very quiet, the cold keeping most sensible people inside, and John relished the quiet. At was never actually quiet back at Baker Street, and as much as he loved Sherlock, sometimes he just wanted that little bit of peace

"Facts, John..."

The doctor blinked and turned to stare at Sherlock, his deep voice having shattered the silence more effectively than a shotgun. He swallowed the last piece of bacon sandwich before answering,

"What?"

"Facts, give me facts, there must be something I'm missing..."

"Umm... well, you said... Happily married"

"Yes, keep going"

"Wife was murdered in their home, in the living room..."

"Next...?"

"Bludgeoned over the back of the head with the fire poker"

"..."

"Uh... You said, personal, but didn't want to face her... He'd cleaned up though..."

"Keep going..."

"Anderson suggested he was hiding the evidence, but you said it was-"

"To clean the house, yes, yes, yes, anything else, anything new, anything you noticed yourself, something that might trigger something I missed, come on John! The motive! It has to be there, in his actions!"

They fell into silence again, as both men scoured their memory of the arrest and the crime scene, but john was distracted by a teenage couple sitting right on the bank of the river, playfully dropping things in the water and watching the ripples.

He could almost heard Sherlock's teeth gritting together as the young girl giggled and gazed at where her boyfriend was pointing

"Did you know, swan's mate for life Sarah?" the young lad whispered in what John assumed was supposed to be some sort of flirt. The girl clearly fell for it as she gasped at the small group of swans that her boyfriend had pointed out swam lazily near the bank they were sitting on.

While the youngsters clearly had their adult white plumes, John could see that five of the swans were this years young, and he watched the seven stunning birds drift past as he tried tor refocus on the case over the girl's gushing and the young mans attempts at being romantic

"Want to be like swans, Sarah?" John barely smothered a laugh as he half watched the boy's fumbling hands but his laugh would have been better than what happened next

"Rubbish" came Sherlock's deep voice, shattering the teenager's whispers and drawing their unwavering gazes to his

"Swans do not always mate for life; it has been proven through recent studies into genetics that quite often the creatures will divorce from their partners, or even mate with other swans while maintaining their main partnership, some swans have even been known to shown homosexual and transsexual tendencies... "

Silence reigned as Sherlock stopped his rant short, and john frowned. Surely the man hadn't actually realised, on his own, that his comments were inappropriate?

It took one look into pale grey eyes fro john to know that, no, that w3asn't what had stopped the consulting detective

"That's it! John! Mrs Osman was in a relationship with another woman! He was ashamed of her! That's it, that's the motive! Oh how did I miss it!"

The taller man leapt from the bench and marched out of the park, shouting a "come along John! Lestrade will want to know everything as quickly as possible!"

John merely sighed and stood slowly, glancing at the teenagers and murmuring a soft "sorry". The girl was sobbing and throwing her coat on, and John thought it was probably lucky Sherlock had stopped talking and left when he did, or the young lad might have ended up getting hurt.

"Ah well" he muttered, as he jogged after his partner, "at least that's another case solved, maybe I can hide the violin with the skull..."


	8. Eight Maids a Milking

Catching up slowly . Hope you like it, it's simple, but this was another difficult one... Don't worry; I've got some hilarious ones coming up next!

Love & Hugs, Ari x

* * *

_On the eighth day of Christmas, My true love sent to me_

_Eight Maids a milking,_

_Seven Swans a Swimming, Six geese a laying_

_Five gold rings_

_Four calling birds, Three French hens_

_Two turtle doves, and a Partridge in a Pear tree._

* * *

"We're out of milk"

"Yes"

"When?"

"Yesterday lunch time"

"Why didn't you text me? I could have got some from the shops on my way home..."

"I didn't want to bother you"

* * *

"What is that?"

"I'm trying to see how long it takes cat guts to rot in a Neutral pH solution..."

"Is that our milk?"

"Not entirely, to make it neautral I had to add-"

"Sherlock?"

"...Yes"

* * *

"Oh my god!"

"Hmm?

"What did you put in this tea?"

"Is it not right?"

"What's in it, Sherlock?"

"Milk ... I thought I'd managed to strain all the-"

"Do _not_ tell me, I _do not_ want to know"

* * *

""We're out of milk John"

"You're telling me now, why?"

"Well you've just got in..."

"Why didn't you text me?"

"My phone's in my coat, I tried calling for Mrs Hudson, but she's ignoring me again"

"Oh for heavens sake Sherlock..."

* * *

"Good morning John! You're looking well..."

"Milk?"

"..."

"That's what I thought"

* * *

"Where the hells is the milk, Sherlock!"

"I needed it"

"What for this time? Another experiment neutraliser? Something to feed the stray cats? Washing your bloody hair in it? I had a whole two pints in there, Sherlock!"

"I drank it"

John slammed the front door on his way out, and Sherlock never admitted to him that he winced.

* * *

"You didn't"

"Didn't what, John?"

"The powdered milk was so that when you used the normal milk I'd have something to put in tea"

"..."

"Well?"

"... I ran out of milk"

* * *

John had had enough. The local shop only sold milk in two pint's and that clearly wasn't enough for Sherlock. There was only so many time she could drink black tea first thing in the morning before he was ready to commit murder himself.

He'd finally resorted to something he'd sworn he'd never do. John got himself an account online, and he went to the closest supermarket, and ordered eight pints of milk, to be delivered, every two days to 221b Baker Street for the next month.

He would make certain they didn't run out of milk if it killed him, and at the current rate, Sherlock was going to win. If john had to resort to Internet shopping to beat the demented genius who found milk perfect for experiments then he would!

No matter how many curses and server failures it took.

Maybe Sherlock had infected his laptop with some kind of virus to win this battle of wills...

* * *

On Wednesday the fifteenth of December, John could have kissed Lestrade when he text Sherlock, no case but he wanted the consulting detective in to confirm some details in the Osman case.

That got the taller man out of the flat so John could take the delivery and have his stash of powdered milk hidden before Sherlock was back.

The driver was later, and in a foul mood due to the weather and treacherous ice on the roads, but John didn't care. He took the delivery and filled the fridge with bottles of milk, slotting them in around his partner's collection of chilled body parts and by the time Sherlock returned he was settled in his chair, reading with a milky cup of tea, a hidden stash of powdered milk tied to the under side of his bed, and a smile on his face.

"John?"

"Hmm? Everything go all right at the Yard?"

"Yes... I was speaking with Lestrade, and he may have pointed out that the reason we're arguing more is because you're not getting that first cup of tea in the mornings..."

John froze, and raised his eyes from his book to Sherlock's frowning gaze. He truly looked puzzled.

"Yes... I have said this"

"I thought you were exaggerating the issue... Well, the solution is simple; we'll simply buy double the milk, and label one bottle as yours"

Sherlock nodded, his decision made, and flung his coat and outer wear onto the coat pegs in the hall before moving into the kitchen. John shut his eyes with a small sigh, listening to the thundering silence when Sherlock opened the fridge to begin his next experiment. His lover's reaction just about summed up the whole situation, John decided when he heard a soft "ah..." echo through from the kitchen.

The doctor couldn't help but laugh.


	9. Nine Ladies Dancing

**A/N **Thank you to everyone who helped me work out what "period's" are, in a literary sense, for all you Americans, in England they're called "Full Stops". I believe that the problem caused in chapter 6 was when I used them like this "..."

I took literature as an A-Level, so if I'm right, and that was what was causing the trouble, I'd like to let all you Americans know that when used like that it's referred to as an "ellipsis", it's used to signify a pause or hesitation in the writing, more often then not in speech. If that _**wasn't**_ the problem, Anon reviewer from chapter 6 has stumped me, and I admit to giving up :p

Moving on, this one should be a sweet one, let's hope I pull it off ;)

Love & Hugs, Ari.

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Sherlock, and by default Benedict Cumberbatch, I would not be in my bedroom writing fan fiction. I would be in my bedroom doing other, more interesting, things.

* * *

_On the Ninth day of Christmas, My true love sent to me,_

_Nine ladies dancing, Eight Maids a-milking,_

_Seven Swans a-swimming, Six Geese a-laying,_

_Five Gold Rings,_

_Four Calling Birds, Three French Hens,_

_Two Turtle Doves, and a Partridge in a Pear Tree._

"We need to go a buy suits."

John blinked with his jacket half off, and frowned at Sherlock as the taller man laid stretched out on the sofa with his fingers pressed together under his chin.

"Umm... why?"

"For Mycroft's Christmas dinner."

John was silent as he finished removing his coat and gloves, and carried the shopping into the kitchen as he thought.

"What Christmas dinner?"

"The one he invited us to last month."

John frowned, and noticed that Sherlock hadn't once looked at him.

"Why don't I remember this invitation?"

The consulting detective didn't reply and John sighed as he made his way into the living room and scowled down at Sherlock with his arms folded.

"I may have deleted the text message he sent you, I thought I could talk him out of us having to go."

"I take it, since we now have to buy suits, that you failed?"

"Sherlock glared at him, but John could see the signs of a sulk starting "I didn't _fail_! He merely mentioned mother would be there... she'd be upset if I missed it."

"So, why do_ I_ need to go?"

"Mother wants to meet you."

John sighed and sank into his chair. He didn't really mind going, but he'd not met Mrs Holmes before, and that did make him a bit nervous. But honestly, how bad could a Christmas dinner party be?

"So when it is then?"

"Next week."

**

* * *

**

The snow had melted days ago, but the temperature was still barely above freezing by the time John had managed to motivate Sherlock into helping him find an appropriate suit for Mycroft's dinner. They'd been through a number of shops, starting with John's choices, at reasonable prices, and they were now in store's Sherlock had chosen where they had been given a starting price and everything that was adjusted to fit the customer was added onto the bill.

John felt ill at the thought of how much these suits were going to cost, and usually he'd have put his foot down at the extravagance, but he did want to make a good impression on Mrs Holmes after all. The whole shopping trip had taken nearly four hours, and most of that time had been spent having John fitted for a suit, the tailor seemed to already know Sherlock's sizes, and the doctor had a sneaking suspicion that this was the Holmes family tailor.

When the shop assistant brought over a selection of shoes, John was ready to throw them at the man, and from Sherlock's grin, he knew it too.

"No, none of them, they need to be soft leather, I'm certain Mycroft will having dancing."

"Dancing?"

The detective blinked at Johns shocked exclamation as the assistant removed the current selection and scurried away to pick out some more for his customer's perusal.

"Well, yes, dancing... What else do people usually do at Christmas dinner parties?"

"Sit down, have dinner, and usually get drunk..."

Sherlock shrugged, suddenly relaxing "Oh, well that happens too."

"Sherlock..." John muttered, as he spotted the shop assistant on his way back, "I can't dance."

He spotted Sherlock tense out of the corner of his eye, but the man covered it quickly, even as John's chest filled with guilt. He wasn't entirely comfortable with public displays of affection, but he knew that Sherlock liked to show him off. He sometimes thought it had something to do with proving that someone could do more than tolerate him, someone did indeed love him with all his eccentricities and quirks, and not despite them.

Something Sherlock still wasn't good at though was reading John's intentions behind his actions. In that brief stiffening, John knew that Sherlock though he'd said he couldn't dance, so that he wouldn't have to dance, and a plan began unwinding through his thoughts even as the taller man shrugged

"That's fine, I don't dance at Mycroft's meals anyway, it won't surprise anyone if I decline to again this year."

John's new plan didn't stop the guilt that statement caused though.

"I'll get a soft pair anyway; they might as well be comfortable."

**

* * *

**

Sherlock's insecurities were well hidden and deeply buried, but sometimes they dug their way out. When John backed out of dancing at Mycroft's dinner party with the excuse that he couldn't dance, he'd given Sherlock's insecurities a ladder to help them escape with.

'_He could be telling the truth, not many people do know how to dance now...'_

'_No, he's simply ashamed to be seen with the __**freak...**__'_

'_You're being silly; he wouldn't have stayed if that was the case'_

'_But he's not stayed is he? He's vanishing more and more...'_

Every evening since their shopping trip John had been going out, and not returning for around four hours, usually sweating, and sometimes out of breath. If Sherlock hadn't known better, he'd have thought the doctor was cheating on him, but the evidence was inconclusive. John knew how observant Sherlock was, there was no way he'd be able to hide that from the consulting detective.

Sometimes John went missing for a couple of hours in the middle of the day if they didn't have work to do for Lestrade, and returned in the same state. He always took a shower, which was helpful because the smell of sweat really wasn't something that Sherlock found appealing, but the consulting detective was drawing a blank when he tried to work out where John was going.

He'd have already followed his lover, but John had made him promise not to, telling him he was preparing something for Christmas. He wasn't lying, exactly, but Sherlock knew when John wasn't being completely honest either.

Was the man planning on breaking their partnership up on Christmas? No, no John wouldn't be that cruel...

'_Wouldn't he? Then why is he lying? He's ashamed to be with you...'_

'_That's not it, its public displays of affection...'_

'_He didn't have a problem with Sarah...'_

'_That was different...'_

'_Why?'_

Sherlock growled before he noticed John standing in the doorway. He'd frozen at Sherlock's frustrated sound, and was now blinking at his lover, as he tried to catch his breath. Sherlock scowled at his flushed heated face.

The consulting detective rolled on the sofa, offering John his back and another huff of irritation

"You all right Sherlock?"

"Perfectly."

Silence reigned for a heartbeat as the taller man listened for his partner's movements. His breath caught and hope spread delicate wings when John took a step towards the sofa. This was right, this was normal; John would demand to know what he was sulking about now...

But hope shattered as the doctor merely sighed, and turned, heading for the stairs and the shower... like he had been for nearly a week. With a growl that had John turning back to Sherlock in surprise the consulting detective launched himself from the sofa towards the sweat covered doctor, and pinned him to the nearest wall as he slammed a harsh kiss against John's lips, drawing blood and a surprised gasp from the shorter man that Sherlock took full advantage of.

His tongue forced it's way into the doctor's mouth and John moaned, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck, and tangling his fingers in the mans hair as Sherlock melted against him, long arms tugging at John's waist possessively. It took less than a moment for John to begin responding to Sherlock's aggressive attack, stroking along the other man's tongue with his own, and swiping steady hands along Sherlock's trembling back, but the detective wouldn't be calmed, and nipped harshly at John's lips, drawing another type of trembling from the doctor.

When firm fingers began tugging harshly at the belt of John's jeans though the doctor growled in frustration, and kissed Sherlock deeply in a way he knew froze his lover's thoughts for a moment. It took less time than that for the doctor to have swapped their positions and to pin the detective's hands against the wall as they both panted, trying to catch their breaths

"Let me go, John!"

A soft, languid kiss stopped Sherlock's rant and made his body melt against John's, and the doctor kept up the smooth brush of lips and tongue until his lover moaned and kept his eyes pressed closed when John moved back slightly

"I love you, Sherlock"

The man in question tensed against John's body and John responded with a firm push of hips, and another tender brush of lips and tongue that calmed the argument Sherlock had been building up to

"Where do you keep going?"

John didn't think he'd ever heard Sherlock quite that vulnerable, and he nearly told the man everything but he couldn't. Not yet. There was only a couple of day's left to Mycroft's Christmas party, and then he'd surprise Sherlock.

"Wait three more days, and I'll tell you ... I'll do better, I'll show you, but it's a surprise Sherlock..." He released the detective's hands and they immediately found their way under his jumper and John pressed his forehead to Sherlock's as the taller man sighed

"Fine..." he grumbled after a moment, and a couple more slow kisses, "Now go and get that shower, you absolutely stink"

**

* * *

**

John was nervous, and it had very little to do with the new suit he was standing in front of the mirror staring at.

The suit looked good, he had to admit, and the fit was exquisite, even the new shoes were comfortable and oh gods, he was going to be sick.

It was the night of Mycroft's dinner party, and he was going to be introduced to Mrs Holmes as Sherlock's partner. He hadn't dared to ask Sherlock how many people were going to be there, especially not after his show of possessive dominance a few days previous.

With a terrified, resigned sigh, John brushed down the front of the jacket one last time before heading down to where he knew Sherlock was pacing the living room.

"Ready, Sherlock?"

Silence was his answer, and e glanced up from straightening a cuff link to find Sherlock staring at him with a look he recognised instantly

"Let's stay home..."

"Oh no! You didn't fork out a small fortune on this suit so that we'd stay in and it never got used" John smirked, feeling more comfortable with the heated gaze of his lover on him than he had all day, his nerves over Mycroft's Christmas dinner party had vanished and he merely grinned at his lover

"Why don't you hold that though, and we'll leave the party early?"

Sherlock scowled, and didn't answer, settling for a brief brush of lips and a soft "You look amazing", before the waiting taxi hit his horn and summoned them swiftly out of the flat and on their way.

**

* * *

**

The actual meal had gone without a problem. Soup, followed by a pheasant dish, and concluded with some kind of alcoholic chocolate mouse. Mostly, John asked Sherlock which cutlery to use, and by the time they'd finished the meals provided most of it was still unused. John didn't understand it, and Sherlock promised to explain it later.

The problems didn't start until after dinner, when everyone moved into a huge hall for dancing, a scattering of tables around the room suggested that nobody was expected to sit still for very long, but Sherlock immediately led John to a table in the far corner, muttering briefly that it was his table, and that he'd be back in a few moments with "mother"

"Dr Watson, how are you?"

Mycroft stood next to the table, and John managed to hide a scowl. He must have been waiting for Sherlock to leave. He noticed that the mans usual umbrella had been replaced with an elegant and clearly decorative cane, and John managed to smile at the smooth image the older Holmes brother presented

"Well, thank you Mycroft... It's uh, a lovely party"

Mycroft stared at John for a moment before he sighed and sat down "How much warning did Sherlock give you?"

The doctor grimaced and nodded. There was no point arguing with a Holmes.

"Just under a week"

"For someone as smart as my brother..."John looked back at Mycroft to see him staring across the room, his eyes narrowed in a calculating manner before he shook the look away, "I see that you're still fixing my brothers Christmas present?"

"I'm not sure how, but it seems to be coming together"

"I've been having my surveillance team take some appropriate photographs John, if you'd like copies for some kind of ... memento?"

"That, would be perfect Mycroft, I've been trying to think of some way to put everything together as an actual present for Sherlock"

"I wasn't certain you'd appreciate the interference, John... ah, here comes Mummy"

Mrs Holmes was stunning. Long black hair, that held only a sprinkling of grey here and there, and John half wondered why she didn't simply pluck them. She'd look more like Sherlock and Mycroft's sister if it wasn't for those singular age distinguishing marks.

She glided towards the table, moving a few steps ahead of the now scowling Sherlock when she laid eyes on John and her smile was Sherlock's; The same bright grin that the detective gave only to John. The doctor stood without conscious thought, and smiled, kissing the older woman's offered hand and greeting her softly.

"Mrs Holmes, it's a pleasure to meet you"

"Please, Doctor Watson, call me Ariadne" she smiled softly, and John got the distinct impression he'd just passed some sort of test. This was confirmed when Sherlock relaxed behind his mother, and moved to stand next to John, linking their fingers together.

"Mummy..."

"Mycroft, you've outdone yourself this year"

John had never seen Mycroft at a loss for words but he simply smiled at her. She seemed to have the same affect on everyone she met, not just John and even Sherlock seemed content to simply _be_ in her presence

"It's interesting to meet the man who's managed to get through to Sherlock, he's always been suck an introvert, John"

"Mother..."

John could hear the warning in his lovers voice, but Aridne either didn't or ignored it, from the widening grin on her features John would have put money on the second option

"You must come for tea one day in the New Year and tell me all about how you met, Sherlock has been irritatingly vague, and Mycroft tells me it's confidential, which probably means it's an incredibly interesting story... what do you say?"

John couldn't help but laugh as the two brothers glared at their mother, and after a moment he managed to choke out a "sure, Ariadne, I'd love to" and the two men on either side of him, transferred their glares to him but John didn't mind, as Ariadne laughed lightly

"Wonderful! I can tell I'm going to like you Doctor Watson"

She glanced at Sherlock, and a glint that John recognised from his lover entered her bright blue eyes causing a chill to run the length of his spine, before she spoke again

"Are you going to enjoy the dancing this evening, John?"

This was another test, and from Sherlock's suddenly tense form, he didn't think they would get out of this one, but John smiled softly, and squeezed Sherlock's hand to shut the mans mouth

"I intend to Ariadne, Sherlock insisted on introducing us before we began the evening properly though"

He could feel Sherlock's eyes on him, before they flicked to Mycroft who was purposefully staring at the cane in his hand. It took moments for the consulting detective to bend his mind to the problem, and Ariadne winked at John while her younger son was distracted

"How irresponsible of him, I suggest you boys go and have fun, Mycroft, weren't you going to introduce me to that assistant of yours?"

John grinned and tugged a shocked Sherlock into the crowds of people without a sound of protest till they stood near the centre of the room

"You said you couldn't dance"

"You didn't believe me"

They began moving round the room after a few false starts, but eventually they joined the crowds of people in a smooth waltz

"I was right"

"You were wrong Sherlock, that's what I've been doing all week, taking a crash course in dance lessons"

Sherlock missed a step and John stumbled

"You... what?"

"Don't do that, it's hard enough when you're doing it right, Sherlock" John muttered, his face flushed as he avoided his lovers questions.

They began moving smoothly around the hall again and it took a while before Sherlock spoke again, his mind turning over the events of the last week

"You... went and took dance lessons"

"Yes... You didn't think I wanted to dance, and I did, not that you left me much time..." John sighed before continuing, his tone softening "I'm not always comfortable with public displays of affection Sherlock, but it's not because I'm ashamed to be seen with you, or because I don't want you"

He felt Sherlock stiffen, and tugged the taller man closer, almost too close for the dance

"I simply don't want to share you or your reactions with anyone else" the doctor whispered and Sherlock flushed

"So that's why you took over when I..."

John waited to see if Sherlock would finish, but he didn't so John sighed "When I wouldn't let you pin me to a wall and have you wicked way with me? Yes, because it was unnecessary, and for the wrong reasons"

The dance continued to something slow that John didn't know, and Sherlock pulled the doctor flush against his body and pressed their foreheads together, watching the man in amazement as John began grinning

"It was very hot though Sherlock" he whispered, "If you wanted to keep that in mind for when we get home, I promise to be surprised"

Sherlock laughed softly, and when he finished that glowing smile he shared with his mother stayed on his face, and John pointedly didn't mention the dampness to the other man's eyes. He knew how much this simple dance in public, had meant to Sherlock. He didn't need to mention it, Sherlock did it for him

"I love you, John"


	10. Ten Pipers Piping

A/N: Congratulations to "momentshaveyou" for the 100Th review ^.^ I've never had over 100 reviews before (I've never had more than 30) So a huge thank you to everyone following this fic ^.^ I love you all, and as a thank you here is a free batch of Criterion Coffee *hands out trays of coffee*.

Another thank you to "LoliPear the WaltzQueen" For being the first person to comment on my disclaimer *beams*

Love & Hugs,

Ari x

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Sherlock, and by default Benedict Cumberbatch, I would not be in my bedroom writing fan fiction. I would be in my bedroom doing other, more interesting, things.

_On the Tenth day of Christmas, My true love sent to me,_

_Ten Pipers Piping,_

_Nine ladies dancing, Eight Maids a-milking,_

_Seven Swans a-swimming, Six Geese a-laying,_

_Five Gold Rings,_

_Four Calling Birds, Three French Hens,_

_Two Turtle Doves, and a Partridge in a Pear Tree._

John had survived Mycroft's party. He'd survived the dancing, and the meeting with Mrs Ariadne Holmes. His suit had even survived the almost vicious attack it had received from Sherlock the moment they'd walked through the doors that night, and now, sitting in his office at the local surgery John was worrying about the next line of Sherlock's Christmas present.

He'd planned ahead for the last line; that surprise was already planned out and ready to go. John was also pretty sure he could find something to fill the "eleven drummers" with... but pipers piping was making him seriously worry.

He could just imagine dragging Sherlock along to see some kind of performance that involved pipes. He _could_ imagine it, but he didn't. It would be a recipe for disaster.

Snapping him out of his thoughts, Sarah suddenly popped her head round his door and smiled apologetically.

"Sorry John, I know it's your lunch break but... well, an emergency's come in, could you take it?"

John glanced at his untouched lunch, and decided he wasn't going to get to eat it worrying about Christmas presents anyway, so sent a smile at Sarah and pressed the lid back over his cold pasta.

"Sure, what's up?"

"Thanks John," Sarah came into the room, and shut the door behind her "He's got some kind of chemical burn, and since you've lived with Sherlock for quite a while now..."

John was already nodding; treating chemical burns was becoming second nature.

"Do you know what it is? Or how he got it?"

"Say's he's a plumber, but it doesn't seem... right?"

"All right," John sighed "Send him in then."

"Thanks, John..."

"Don't worry about it."

**

* * *

**

John had barely pulled on a pair of white latex gloves when his patient stumbled through the door, hissing softly when his hand caught on the door.

"Afternoon Mr...?"

"Lewis, sir."

"Ms. Park says you have a chemical burn?"

Mr Lewis lifted his left hand, and john took hold gently, lifting his magnifier to the burn after a moment or two, and listening to the man's explanation.

"Yeah, didn't notice it at first, thought I'd dodged everything when the pipe exploded-"

"What?"

John raised his eyes from studying the dark red burn on the mans left hand and the plumber shrugged, his overalls shifting at the movement.

"I was doin' this job at some nearby posh house, pipes leakin' an all the normal stuff"

"This looks like a sodium burn, I'm going to have to brush your skin to make sure there's no residue left. You were explaining how you got this burn?"

"Yeah, well I was working, and suddenly the metal started fizzing, and then the whole bloody pipe exploded!"

John frowned, but nodded. This was starting to sound like something he would expect back at home after one of Sherlock's experiments, but he didn't interrupt the man.

"So I complained the to client that the work's had been tampered with, he offered to pay me double but I insisted he find another company, money's no good after all, if I'm too dead to spend it"

The man hissed as John gently brushed away at the burn with a soft sterile cloth, before gently directing the plumber to the sink in corner of the room and running the mans' hand under the water.

"He started complaining that there must be some company in London who fix it, so then I says 'Look Mr Holmes, no man's gonna risk his life to fix your plumbin' and till you get whatever's in those pipes gone, you're just gonna have to put up with the floodin'."

John had been holding the burn under the cold water for much longer the necessary and Mr. Lewis was starting to squirm as the ice cold water began sending his hand numb. The doctor pulled the hand out and gently dried it, checking the burn again before applying a cooling salve and wrapping it with a light bandage.

"Did you say 'Mr Holmes'?"

He asked softly as he moved back to his desk and opened up the mans files on the computer system, indicating the Mr Lewis should take a seat.

"Yeah, weird bloke too, had an umbrella, although he needed it with his problems, and some snotty assistant who wouldn't speak a word, or offer a hard workin' bloke a coffee!"

Mr Lewis laughed, and John managed a small smile. He could only see one way that Mycroft would get pure sodium lining his water pipes.

He prescribed Mr Lewis an antiseptic cream, and some more of the cooling salve, instructed him to keep the burn dry for at least twenty four hours, and then went home early, with apologies to Sarah.

**

* * *

**

Sherlock wasn't in when John got home, but then John hadn't expected him to be. He knew Sherlock went wandering, to think or to find new cases, while he worked at the surgery but the genius was always home by the time John was.

He glanced at the clock, half hidden by the skull, as he removed his coat and smiled. That gave Sherlock less than three hours to get home, and look like he'd never moved form the sofa. At a guess, he'd be back in half that time so John put the kettle on and went and found a book while he waited for it to boil.

Tea made, and book prepared the Doctor let his amusement simmer and lost himself in a fantasy world.

It barely seemed five minutes later when he heard the door open downstairs, but a quick glance at the clock told him it had been two hours. His eyes returned to his book, but he had trouble hiding his smile when his partner froze in the doorway, surprise on his face before he schooled it into a scowl

"Aren't you supposed to be working?"

"I had an emergency case, so Sarah let me go early"

Sherlock huffed, and shut the door behind him to keep the warmth in the room, leaving his own coat on. It had clearly cooled off quickly since John had walked home.

John raised his eyes from his book, a small affectionate smile on his face as he watched Sherlock pace round the room in long strides as the taller man shifted through papers and books. John didn't know how he kept track of everything he needed, but Sherlock never seemed to have any trouble.

"Sodium."

The doctor had the rare pleasure of watching Sherlock stiffen in apprehension.

"What?"

"My emergency case, Sodium burn."

"Chemist?"

"Plumber"

Sherlock turned to face him with his arms crossed, and a scowl on his face, but there was a glint in his deep grey eyes that John spotted before the detective smothered it.

"Really? And how did a plumber come into contact with sodium..."

John raised an eyebrow as he closed his book and leaned back into his chair.

"Because he was unfortunate enough to be one of a group of companies Mycroft hired to fix his water pipes after his dinner party the other night."

Sherlock's lips twitched, and John's eyes narrowed playfully.

"What I want to know, Sherlock, is when you found the time to sneak off and sabotage your brother's plumbing system."

That did it. Sherlock laughed suddenly, his whole body rocking as he chuckled, and John couldn't help but grin along with him.

"He can't get anyone to fix it because of the chemical addition to the problem."

"I actually wish I could take credit for this John, its genius, it really is..."

John frowned, his humour fading "You mean, it _wasn't _you?"

Sherlock on the other hand was still smirking as he smothered the remainder of his laughter, "No, not me."

"Well ... who was it then?"

"Mother, of course."

The look of pure shock on John's face had Sherlock laughing again and he pushed off from the wall he'd been leaning against to head into the kitchen, "Honestly John, where did you think I got all my eccentricities from?"

Reluctantly, John admitted he did have a point.


	11. Eleven Drummers Drumming

**A/N1: **This chapter is early, it's not due to be posted till December 21st, so you guys are gonna have a little bit of a longer wait for the last installment, that's due up December 23rd. The reason I'm posting it early, if that I wanted a little bit more free time to finish off your bonus SMUT chapter for Xmas day :) Thank you so much to everyone who's read this fic, but especially those of you who have reviewed. The Bonus Smut is dedicated to all of you guys who've reviewed. Thanks again.

**A/N2**: So, I wanted some fluff. It may be a little out of character, but I'm going to blame it on love. We're all fools in it after all ;)

Love & Hugs,

Ari x

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Sherlock, and by default Benedict Cumberbatch, I would not be in my bedroom writing fan fiction. I would be in my bedroom doing other, more interesting, things.

* * *

_On the Eleven day of Christmas, My true love sent to me,_

_Eleven Drummers Drumming, Ten Pipers Piping,_

_Nine ladies dancing, Eight Maids a-milking,_

_Seven Swans a-swimming, Six Geese a-laying,_

_Five Gold Rings,_

_Four Calling Birds, Three French Hens,_

_Two Turtle Doves, and a Partridge in a Pear Tree._

They'd just left Scotland Yard and John was already freezing. December 21st and there was once again a fresh layer of snow on the ground. Sherlock was, as usual striding ahead, but with the treacherous ice on all the pavements John was, for once, struggling to keep up.

"Sherlock! For goodness sake slow down, you'll slip and break an ankle or something."

"We need to get home swiftly, John, and there's not going to be any taxi's running in this weather; none of the roads have been gritted properly."

Despite his words, Sherlock did stop and wait for the doctor, before continuing at a slower pace.

"It's not like you have a case," John huffed as they continued through the ridiculously busy London streets "Why are we hurrying?"

"There's too many people, John, and it's only 9.30 in the morning... these frankly ludicrous crowds are only going to get worse."

The taller man was filled with an agitated energy, and even with his hands in his pockets, John knew the mans long fingers would be clenched with the desire to run, and remove himself from the multitude of people swiftly and efficiently.

The journey home was slow going, but Sherlock had been right, every Taxi they saw was crawling along the icy roads at a pace almost slower than the two men were walking. Not to mention the fact that John had yet to see an empty one.

The crowds, however, didn't seem to be increasing until they wee nearly home, and then Sherlock's curse drew John's attention to the wall of bodies blocking their way.

"It's no good, we'll have to wait it out, there's not another safe route round this pandemonium what with all the ice."

John frowned before glancing at Sherlock's face "What is going on, Sherlock!"

"Some parade – I spotted it advertised in last weeks paper I hoped we'd be able to get home before it started, but I hadn't planned on the authorities not gritting the streets to slow our progress."

Unfortunately for Sherlock, John had stopped listening at the word 'Parade' and much to the consulting detective's displeasure, was already heading towards the wall of human bodies crushed together against a police manned barricade.

"What are you doing?" Sherlock growled after John, but his expression softened at the delighted laugh the other man returned as he beckoned Sherlock over with an easy grin.

"Come on, Sherlock, If we're stuck here we might as well make the most of it."

It took moments for Sherlock to skid to a stop next to his lover, but his mood wasn't improved by the closeness of everyone else and his scowl deepened

"I fail to see the point" he sulked, jamming his hands deeper into his pockets and John shook his head, and propelled them both through the crowds with ease to stand at the front, with a direct view of the Christmas parade

"If I'm recognised by any of the police officers here John-"

"Oh stop _whining_, Sherlock!" The doctor promptly turned his back to the taller man, slid himself between Sherlock and the barricade and tugged the other mans arms around him, drawing warmth from the large coat his lover wore, and pointedly ignoring the shocked silence behind him, as he relaxed against the consulting detective's shoulder with a smile, and watched the floats drifting past them.

It took almost five minutes of John softly stroking the back of Sherlock's hands where they wrapped around his waist, but eventually Sherlock relaxed, and tightened his grip with a sigh John knew he didn't mean.

"Starting to see the point, Sherlock?"

"Oh, shut up."

**

* * *

**

There was every float imaginable, beautiful Christmas scenes, some amusing tableau's, some of them had singers, that made Sherlock shudder and John laugh at his partners reactions, and there were even one or two floats depicting traditional scenes of Yuletide celebrations.

Sherlock kept up a continuous stream of information on the origins and plans that went into each float, and John was grinning and more than once telling his lover just how amazing his deductions were. Every compliment was followed up by that semi-surprised and partially disbelieving pause that John relished and hated, and neither of them could feel the cold seeping into their bodies as they stood wrapped in each other.

It wasn't until the band rolled round the corner and Sherlock fell silent in suppressed irritation that John wondered just who set up this parade, and why Sherlock had been so adamant to avoid it.

Mycroft knew, after all, what John's Christmas present to Sherlock was, and it seemed strange to John that a parade was blocking their way home, a parade that happened to have exactly eleven drummers in it's band.

If John didn't know better, he'd say Mycroft has caused the snow to stop Sherlock taking an alternate route home too. But that was just silly.

John almost jumped when the detective's cold nose was pressed into his neck with a soft sigh of "ridiculous."

"Hmm?"

"Eleven drummers... well they'd be fine if the other instruments there were balance, but there's too few of everything else, the drums are drowning out whatever tune they're attempting to regale everyone with..."

Sherlock's commentary on the arrangement of the band continued, but John simply laughed, stopping rapidly when he felt Sherlock tense "only you would know that much about the perfect composition for a band, no one else even noticed."

He turned his head to meet Sherlock's eyes over his shoulder when he felt the man relax against him again.

"I don't see how they could miss it, people really are unobservant, John" Sherlock whispered, and pulled the doctor closer as they both shivered, the white puffs of their breath mingling in the air between them as the final float, one holding a huge merry Father Christmas, rolled by.

Both men felt the pleasant tension between them spike, and John felt his gaze drop down Sherlock's face without his consent, he did narrow them, however, at the confident smirk he found on the other mans lips.

"The parade's over, John."

"So it is."

"We're ready to go home, then?" Sherlock whispered, warm lips brushing Johns as he spoke, and marking his lovers increased pulse rate as John nodded

"Yes, I think you've made another brilliant deduction there" John closed what was left of the gap and pulled Sherlock's tongue into his mouth, drawing an almost indecent moan from the detective. As they broke apart, John nodded as though coming to a decision "Yes, definitely home"

Sherlock wasted very little time in getting them the last few streets back to 221b Baker Street.


	12. Twelve Lords a Leaping

A/N 1: **SlowMope** pointed out to me, for Chapter 8, that milk is neither a 0ph solution, nor is it a neutral solution. :D I swear, I did pass Science, 2 C's actually ;) Anyway, I've gone back and edited the chapter a little, tweaked it to fit, so thanks again to **SlowMope** :)

A/N 2: The 12 days of Christmas are completed. Just your bonus chapter to go, which I'll post at the first gap I have on Christmas Day. I'm ill (yes, right on top of Christmas) so they'll probably be some bits in here that I missed in my read through. I promise to come back sometime in the New Year and fix everything, but for now :p tough.

I hope everyone has a VERY Merry Christmas, and gets everything that they wanted.

Love and Hugs to you all,

Ari xxx

**Disclaimer:** If I owned Sherlock, and by default Benedict Cumberbatch, I would not be in my bedroom writing fan fiction. I would be in my bedroom doing other, more interesting, things.

* * *

_On the Twelfth day of Christmas, My true love sent to me,_

_Twelve Lords a Leaping, Eleven Drummers Drumming, _

_Ten Pipers Piping,_ _Nine ladies dancing, _

_Eight Maids a-milking,_ _Seven Swans a-swimming, _

_Six Geese a-laying,_ _Five Gold Rings,_

_Four Calling Birds, Three French Hens,_

_Two Turtle Doves, and a Partridge in a Pear Tree._

This was it, the day John had actually been looking forward to. The last line of the poem, but more importantly, one of the only ones he'd actually planned, and wasn't this planned!

He'd had to do most of the preparation at his surgery, and now all he had to do was simply hope that Sherlock was in a good mood. He should be, he'd gotten Lestrade's help in supplying the detective with a simple case the day before to stave off the boredom, but John had insisted that whatever case Lestrade got him to do not linger into today.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

The man in question was sitting perched at the kitchen table, his eyes plastered to a microscope, wrapped in that awful blue robe with his hair still dripping from the shower he'd taken half an hour ago, and John felt worry settle in his stomach.

"Dinner?"

"No, thank you, there was an interesting poison used in the case Lestrade gave me-"

"It wasn't actually a suggestion" John corrected, his voice soft, but the sharp tone immediately had Sherlock's eyes and attention fixed on him. It wasn't often John brought out the drill sergeant tone, but when he did it always seemed to grab his partner's entire focus.

"Dinner?" Sherlock repeated slowly, almost cautiously, a though trying to judge John's intentions.

"Yes."

Sherlock's gaze swept over John's new clothes and his sharp eyes narrowed at the leather trousers John had gotten from Harry for his birthday nearly half a year earlier, and the dark blue button shirt that matched his eyes. John was beginning to feel uncomfortable under his lovers intense stare as the detective eyed up the long military style coat had managed to pick up cheaply.

It was cheap too, John though with a suppressed shiver, too bloody thin for the snow, but it was better with this getup than the bomber jacket.

"What did you have in mind?"

"Angelo's, I booked a table, are you going to get changed?"

It wasn't a request and Sherlock knew it. His eyes narrowed but his interest had been piqued, so he moved fluidly from the table and into his room without comment.

**

* * *

**

Sherlock looked as smooth as ever, in one of his sharply cut suits, but for once in the taxi, his entire focus was on John, and the doctor smiled before moving his eyes from the back of the cabbies head to meet Sherlock's eyes.

"John..."

"Yes, Sherlock?"

The consulting detective paused, and almost seemed to struggle with himself before frowning "Is this... a date?"

"That was the idea; we haven't been on a date since we started this strange relationship of ours... _Not _one where we've both sat down, eaten a meal and not talked about a case" John clarified as Sherlock began to argue, nipping the discussion in the bud.

"To what purpose?"

Something imperceptible shifted in John's face and Sherlock swallowed.

"Do you really want to ask me that, Sherlock?"

"Uh, no, no not really."

John _hmm'd_, and refocused his gaze on the price of the taxi, until his attention was drawn to the long fingers wrapping round his and lifting his hand to soft lips. He smiled, forgiving the man instantly, but kept his eyes on the price – it had a strange way of racking up if you weren't watching it.

**

* * *

**

Sherlock had always seen eating as an unwelcome necessity that slowed him down at the most inconvenient times, which was why he stopped eating whenever a case came along. When he had to eat, restaurants provided sufficient sustenance, and were usually free to him, but eating in restaurants every time quickly became repetitive and dull.

John moving in had made the self proclaimed sociopath realise that half of his problem with eating was that he couldn't cook. Sausages were not supposed to be black, and the beans on toast were supposed to be hot, and not mush.

John, on the other hand, was rather good at cooking. Sherlock blamed the army, but it did mean the doctor could tempt the detective to eat at home, and usually once a day when there wasn't a case on.

As his opposite, John only seemed to eat out when they had a case on and he couldn't drag Sherlock back to the flat, so for the good doctor to arrange an evening out, a _date_... suggested to Sherlock that there was more to his lover's motives than just the date, or simple sustenance.

They'd arrived at Angelo's, paid the extortionate taxi fare, and Sherlock let John enter the small Italian first. It had nothing to do with how John's new coat pulled slightly around the mans hips, Sherlock insisted mentally, it was simply that John had booked the table, so he would need to speak to the waiter on service.

"I reserved a table for two, under the name Holmes" John's soft voice drew Sherlock's gaze back to his lovers face and he frowned.

"Holmes?"

John glanced at him and grinned, seemingly pleased with himself.

"Well, I knew if something I did tipped you off and you went looking, you wouldn't expect me to book the table under your name."

Sherlock glared and John chuckled.

"It wouldn't have been a great leap to deduce who had booked under Holmes, Mycroft doesn't eat here."

"Wasn't necessary though was it, 'cause you didn't notice anything anyway"

Sherlock twined his finger together with Johns and glared again, "Oh shut up John," his comment merely making the doctor laugh harder.

The meal was peaceful, and surprisingly enjoyable. They did end up talking about cases, much to Sherlock's delight, but it was more reminiscing, and Sherlock showing off than actually attempting to solve one, which John didn't really mind.

The only moment where the evening looked like it might head south was when Angelo tried putting a candle on their table, and after a brief argument, the doctor managed to convince the restaurant owner to remove the candle, and he'd let the man waive the price of the meal.

_Apparently_, Sherlock thought, _John had originally convinced the man to let him pay. Puzzling. He's attempting to make the whole evening 'normal', something I'd normally despise and yet..._

He caught the Doctor's eyes and John smiled softly, drawing a similar response from Sherlock. Maybe despise was too strong a word...

Their hands twined on the table briefly, before they returned to their calm conversations and for once a meal Sherlock was enjoying.

**

* * *

**

It took less than five minutes once they'd left Angelo's and got into a taxi, for Sherlock to realise that they weren't going home, but no matter how much he badgered, and wheedled John, the ex-service man wouldn't crack.

Sherlock even risked annoying his lover, by sliding his arms around the Doctor's waist in the back of the cab and nipping along the mans neck until he could feel John's breath hitching, but still John would tell him nothing of where they were going.

"You're hopeless Sherlock, if you'd merely been paying attention you'd have more than likely worked it out by now" John laughed, his face flushed from Sherlock's ministrations, and a small bruise starting to stain his neck, causing the detective to smirk satisfied.

"Fine" The detective turned to gaze out of the windows for a moment, frowning, "We're practically on the other side of London, John!"

"Oh don't exaggerate."

"Hmm, well we're clearly doing the 'meal and a show' kind of date, and I sincerely hope you know better than to inflict a cinema full of noisy children on me."

John rolled his eyes with a soft "of course" but otherwise, watched Sherlock with a look the detective knew well. It was the glittering gaze the doctor locked on him when he thought Sherlock was being '_brilliant_', '_amazing_', '_fantastic_'...

"There's not enough data... You could have chosen something you believe I will enjoy, or a preference of yours, this is a busy part of London John..."

"So I've outwitted the great Sherlock Holmes?" John asked, his eyebrows rising in surprise, even as Sherlock pouted, a sulk building.

It was cut off swiftly as the taxi jerked to a stop and announced that they'd arrived, along with a ridiculous price for a car journey. John, however, paid without so much as a murmur of complaint, which was unusual all on its own, and it took a moment for Sherlock to pinpoint why.

Wherever they'd arrived at, John was nervous, he wanted this evening to go well, and Sherlock couldn't have been more puzzled as to his motives if he'd tried, especially when he stepped out of the taxi to be face with the stunning building of the Royal Opera House of London.

He wanted to beg, and make John promise he hadn't gotten tickets to an actual opera. Sherlock was perfectly aware that they held other shows here, but John didn't know his absolute abhorrence of those sharp unnatural notes... but his lover was nervous already so Sherlock merely raise and eyebrow, and once again allowed John to lead their way inside.

**

* * *

**

John wished he knew what was going through Sherlock's mind as he stepped out of the taxi and into the chilling night air. Temperatures in London were still falling below freezing at night.

The doctor spotted a flash of surprise and recognition before Sherlock smiled lightly, and sent an impressed glance at John, waiting for the shorter man to lead the way. Their fingers entwined gently, and they moved across the ice covered ground carefully together, both sighing as they walked into the wall of warm air radiating from the opera house.

It was a rare event that Sherlock wasn't peppering him with questions, so John made the most of the surprise Sherlock was letting him give and sent him to grab two coffees while he went to get their tickets.

The fact that Sherlock didn't even grumble at the menial task was actually a little unnerving, but John wasn't going to complain.

"I have two tickets reserved for the ballet being held in the main hall this evening"

"Name?"

"Holmes" John replied, his voice soft.

"Here you are sir, you'll need to enter on the first floor, that's up the escalators on your left, and the show starts in twenty minutes."

With a warm smile and soft thanks, he turned to find Sherlock standing behind him and he nearly dropped the tickets, glaring when the detective merely smirked.

"So, John, what are we seeing?"

With a sigh, the doctor merely shook his head, grinning, as he traded his coffee for one of the tickets. The grin turned into a full blown beaming smile at the glow Sherlock's eyes suddenly obtain and he relaxed knowing he'd made the right choice for the evening.

**

* * *

**

They sat in a balcony box watching the small troupe of male ballet dancers perform a beautiful rendition of Swan Lake, sitting in surprising silence as the twelve elegant figures of the swans leapt and danced their way across the stage in motions that were almost beyond fluid and the form of the prince was cowering away.

Occasionally John would glance at Sherlock, to see the man studying the dangers with a sharp intense gaze, and other times Sherlock would have his eyes pressed closed, and his head tipped as he studied the notes of the musicians with a musician's ear.

Strangely enough, John found his lack of comments reassuring. If he wasn't picking it apart or correcting it, he was surely enjoying the performance, and after the first interlude, the doctor began to relax.

Sherlock's fingers entwined with his helped.

"His mother always reminds me of Harry, Mum was sort of relieved when she realised Harry wouldn't have kids..." John murmured, mostly to himself as the Queen brushed off her son's attentions, and scolded him.

"You should invite her for Christmas, John" Sherlock's gaze hadn't diverted from the dancers on stage, and John could see the delicate precise steps echoed in his lovers eyes before he chuckled.

"I'm not sure which of you would come out of that alive" They lapsed into silence, and Sherlock's focus returned to the unknowing betrayal currently being portrayed.

As the ballet began reaching its grand finale, John had half expected some form of scoffing at the climax of the performance as the male adaptation of Odette and Prince Siegfried threw themselves into the depths of the lake to stay together forever. He'd expected some mention of how foolish it was, or how dull, or the pure folly of the action.

What John didn't expect was for Sherlock to sit in silence as the curtain fell over the shadows of two swans lit against the stage moon, before nodding and merely murmuring a soft, "fitting," his voice not coming close to piercing over the thunderous applause the ballet had procured.

The detective's deep eyes were serious, and that he'd actually approved of the stage lovers sacrifice spoke volumes to John and he found has chest tight and his voice, for the most part, un-cooperative so it took him a long moment before he smiled softly and whispered a hoarse "Merry Christmas".

Sherlock's grin shattered across his face and he kissed John deeply, pulling a soft moan from the doctor before he pulled away, still smiling.

"A _very_ merry Christmas, John."

The room was flooded with the noise of people leaving the opera house, but in the bubble surrounding John and Sherlock no sound penetrated their focus on each other except for their own breathing, and the feelings between them that required no words.

That is until Sherlock stretched out his long legs and sighed "I still think you should invite Harry over for Christmas"

**

* * *

**

A full meal, a show that had genuinely moved the sociopathic detective, and intense, even for them, kisses in a darkened booth, meant that John wasn't entirely surprised when Sherlock began dozing lightly.

He let the man rest and kept another close watch on the cab's charge until they pulled into Baker Street. Sherlock woke on his own, and slid out of the car ahead of John, opening the door to their flat silently, and they both crept up the stairs to avoid waking Mrs Hudson with their late entrance.

As their front door was pushed shut, their lips crashed together and one of them groaned quietly, but John could feel the shaking in Sherlock's hands, and pulled back gently.

He wouldn't refuse the detective outright, the one time he had had been an absolute nightmare, but his lover needed sleep more than this,

"In the morning..."

Sherlock frowned, and his frame tensed until John smoothed his hands down the silky skin of Sherlock's back where they had snuck beneath his shirt.

"Right now, tonight, I simply want to be with you, to rest with you" John spotted the exact moment his partner melted, and was prepared for the deep yet unutterably tender kiss the man pressed to him and John would have felt guilty at the manipulation if it hadn't bee one hundred percent accurate.

At that moment in time, he couldn't think of anything more perfect than simply falling asleep in the arms of Sherlock Holmes, the one man to steal his heart from his chest and keep it beating.


	13. Merry Christmas, Everyone

_**A/N: Firstly, this one's not been checked by my unofficial beta either, sorry!**_

_**I have to say this has been fun! My longest fic to date, and thank you SO much to every one of you reviewers. I've never received more than thirty reviews for a fic before, so getting just under 150 is absolutely breathtaking ^.^**_

_**This bonus chapter is dedicated to everyone who left me encouraging messages this month. Thank you. I have plenty of plans for Sherlock fics come the New Year, so have a brilliant Christmas, and keep your eyes peeled.**_

_**All my best wishes,**_

_**Ari xxx**_

**

* * *

**

_MERRY CHRISTMAS_

**Detective Inspector Dimmock**

DI Dimmock had a mountain of paperwork and a strong desire to go home to his pregnant wife, leaving said irritating paperwork till after the holidays. It was Christmas Eve after all; he shouldn't still be working at six twenty pm.

DI Dimmock was tired, but he forced himself to keep writing; if he finished the report he was doing, he'd promised himself he'd leave the rest till after the holiday's, so when he glanced up from his desk, looking for coffee and finding Sherlock Holmes and his ever constant companion, John Watson striding towards him, to say that he was irritated was an understatement.

"What do you two want now?"

"See, John? I told you this would be a waste of our time-"

"Sherlock."

The two men locked eyes for a long moment, before Dimmock coughed, and drew their attention. Sherlock sighed and threw down a small packet onto the inspector's desk, wrapped in bright Christmas paper.

"What's this?"

"John...!"

The weary detective looked up at Sherlock's whine in time to see the doctor close his eyes with a sigh,

"It's a Christmas present inspector, as is this."

A small envelope landed on the desk by the small packet from the doctor's hand, and all Dimmock could do was stare in surprise.

"A complete waste of time" Sherlock repeated, turned away and marching from the room. John Watson, however stood for a few moments longer as though expecting the DI to open then gifts, only shifting his weight when it became clear that Dimmock had no intention of moving.

"Right then, Merry Christmas."

DI Dimmock cautiously watched them both leave, and John Watson begin arguing with Sherlock as the door shut behind them, before he returned his gaze to the 'gifts'. This had to be some sort of prank, right?

Carefully he opened the envelope from John Watson, wary of what may be inside, but all that fell out was a small business card.

_Consulting Detective_

_Sherlock Holmes_

_Only crimes of the complicated nature._

_221b Baker street, London._

Dimmock flipped the card over the find only a short sentence in the doctor's hand writing, "Just in case you ever need his help."

As reluctant as he was to admit it, Sherlock Holmes' contact details were probably the most thoughtful gift anyone had given him in a long time, and he carefully slid the card into his desk draw, before refocusing on Sherlock's present. This was the one that could be detrimental to his health.

Sliding a nail under the Christmas paper, Dimmock peeled it open like he was diffusing a bomb, and when nothing actually exploded, he tipped the contents out of the open end, onto his desk.

A small pocket magnifying glass, very much like Sherlock's, was sitting on his desk, along with a gift tag.

"In the hopes that you will use it to actually see something."

The gift was more thoughtful than he would have expected, even if it did contain Sherlock's personal brand of humour. Dimmock frowned at the objects before shaking his head. Just when he'd thought he'd gotten those two figured out, they threw a curve ball like this.

He glanced at the paperwork and decided enough was enough. If anyone asked, he'd blame it on the shock of Sherlock Holmes giving Christmas presents, and DI Dimmock defied anyone to argue with him.

**

* * *

**

**Anderson**

The two boxes were delivered by private courier. Or so the delivery man said, but Anderson could see no insignia on the mans uniform, and the black car parked outside his home looked more than a little suspicious.

"Who was that?"

Anderson winced at his wife's sharp tone and shut the front door sharply.

"Gifts from... colleagues."

He placed the two boxes on the kitchen table and Mrs. Anderson came through from the living room as he began opening the first box. Sherlock wouldn't poison him with a package that had the consulting detective's return address on it would he?

Then again, the one with the return address was the package with Doctor Watson's handwriting all over it...

"A goose! Oh isn't that lovely darling, You'll have to let me send thank you notes, that will make a wonderful centre piece for Boxing Day lunch..."

He ignored the gushing vocals of his wife, and decided that he would need to thank John Watson, but then Anderson's gaze fell on the smaller gift, from Sherlock Holmes and he felt his suspicions rising.

"Well open the next one then."

"Yes dear..." he sighed, pulling it towards himself apprehensively.

It took less time than Anderson would have liked to pull the box open and the silence that fell over the Anderson kitchen was chilling.

"Is this some kind of joke?" he heard his wife but couldn't make himself answer. Sherlock hadn't. Sherlock wouldn't. John wouldn't let him... But Sherlock had. Sherlock bloody Holmes had sent him a home test STD kit.

His marriage was over.

Many people in Beresford Road hear the shrieks of Mrs Anderson that night, and the promises Mr Anderson made to her.

It was a bad joke, they didn't get on, it wasn't true, and it took till the early hours of Christmas morning before Mrs Anderson unlocked the front door and let her husband back inside again, but the doubt had been planted, and she would watch.

Anderson knew she would watch, and knew Sherlock was making him choose. He hated to admit it, but Sherlock Holmes had helped him realise that he didn't want to loose his wife.

"Merry Bloody Christmas, Sherlock, you bastard" Anderson whispered, as his wife fell asleep upstairs, and he resigned himself to backache from the sofa for the rest of the Christmas holidays.

**

* * *

**

**Sally Donovan**

A man in a black suit, calling himself a private courier delivered two small jar shaped packages to the one bedroom flat of Sally Donovan on Christmas Eve.

She'd been just about to relax in front of the fire with a book and a small glass of Amarula when the doorbell had gone, and now Sally was staring at the jar shaped gifts, wrapped in bright shiny Christmas paper with a look of abject shock plastered over he features.

Christmas presents from Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. She could see it, coming from John, but Sherlock sending gifts? Particularly her?

She smelt a rat.

Deciding swiftly to get Sherlock's out of the way, she pulled the gift towards her and began ripping the paper away hazardously. She nearly dropped it when she realised exactly what Sherlock had sent her.

There was a tag tied round the neck of the jar of half melted eyeballs, and she pulled it out of the remaining wrapping paper to read it.

"_You seemed fond of them during the __**fake**__ drugs bust, so I thought you might want to keep them"_

She nearly threw them across the room, but refrained when she realised she'd have to clean to goop up, and had to satisfy herself with simply dumping them in the bin and hoping her dustmen wouldn't ask too many questions.

Taking a calming breath, Sally returned to the second gift and eyed it. This one had to be from John Watson, and should theoretically be safe, but the doctor did live with Sherlock, and the detective had his ways... he could have tampered with it...

She ripped the paper from the second box and pulled out a large tub of moisturising cream; of a ridiculously expensive brand. Scotland Yard was paying them two men too much money. As she pulled the creamed gold out of it's container a small gift tag dropped onto the table and Sherlock's spidery writing caught her gaze again.

"I'm sure this is intended for use on your knees"

Sally could have screamed, but she refrained, managing simply to grit her teeth and set the cream aside. It was ridiculously expensive, and she would be damned if she was going to throw it away to spite Sherlock Holmes.

She eyes her small glass of Amarula, and shook her head before moving round her flat swiftly splashing the liqueur down the sink and pulling out a bottle of her dad's favourite whiskey.

Merry Christmas? Yeah right.

**

* * *

**

**Mycroft Holmes**

When the man, Sherlock had borrowed to send his Christmas presents, returned to Mycroft's office, he carried one more, large box and placed it on Mycroft's desk with a soft "sir".

To say he was shocked would be an exaggeration, but mild surprise and a hint of amusement were clearly present in his usually stoic face. Sherlock hadn't sent him a Christmas gift since the time Mycroft's younger brother had come home from university for Mummy's Christmas party. The events that followed were... unpleasant. As far as Mycroft knew, Sherlock still hadn't forgiven him...

So John Watson must be a much better influence than he'd given the ex-service man credit for. There was a sealed envelope taped to the top of the box, and Mycroft ordered his people to leave the room as he carefully sliced through the paper with an ornate silver letter opener.

'_Mycroft,_

_Do not suppose for once infinitesimal instant that this is in any way a peace offering. John simply wished to send you a Christmas gift, and did not want to do so without a gift from myself to go alongside it._

_My Christmas gift to you will make you scowl, a pleasant thought for myself, but don't trouble yourself worrying and checking... although it took some persuasion, John has agreed with my recommendations completely._

_In other words, I suggest you fire those numerous and exceedingly expensive private physicians, as you are now on the patient list of one Doctor John Watson, I have enclosed the contact details of his surgery to save you the trouble, and you already know where to find him out of hours._

_He is more professional, talented, and better under stress than your hirelings, Mycroft, and added to that, he will not ask you who won 'X factor' as a test for concussion, knowing that you, like me, have very little need for such frivolities._

_Merry Christmas Mycroft,_

_Don't choke on your turkey._

_Sherlock._

_P.S Just for confirmation this is entirely fine by me Mycroft; John Watson.'_

Mycroft had to admit the doctors' signature in the post script was comforting, and he studied the caustic tone of his brothers' letter for a moment before letting loose a rare unguarded smile.

Although Sherlock had covered it with biting comments and scornful remarks, his high praise of John Watson's work spoke absolute volumes to Mycroft; Added to the fact that he was offering his partner's services to his brother, spoke of a gift more heartfelt than anything shared between them in longer than the older man cared to admit.

With a soft smile, and a mental note to have his PA fire his exceedingly expensive private physicians, he turned to the large square box that must be the gift John Watson had not wanted to send on its own.

Sliding the lid off slowly, his was truly shocked to see an exquisitely cut suit lying in swathes of tissues paper. He recognised the work of the Holmes family tailor, so Mycroft knew it would fit, but he rarely purchased himself suits for work in a material of this quality. He could afford them, certainly, but that often took the pleasure away from wearing them. Wearing _**this**_ suit would be different; it wasn't something he could buy.

It was a gift, send in good will, and Mycroft suspected that he may very soon come to consider John Watson a very good friend.

He would have to abduct the man in the New Year for tea, and maybe crumpets.

**

* * *

**

**Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade**

Lestrade had left his office, through the desks, down the corridor, gotten down in the lift to the ground floor, and halfway across the lobby of Scotland Yard before he was stopped.

He was so close to being out of the place and home for Christmas, but no, there in the doorway stood Sherlock Holmes and John Watson.

A perfect way to end Christmas Eve.

"Sherlock, if you have a case it has to wait for three days, I'm on holiday, I'm going home, to my wife, and there is nothing you can say that's going to stop me-"

"We have a Christmas present for you."

Lestrade stopped dead, and turned slowly to scowl at the two men, "you what? Sherlock, you ignore Christmas every year, with a bad tantrum and a sulk that we're wasting time while criminals work... and now, you've got a Christmas present?"

"Don't knock it" John muttered, drawing the inspector's puzzled frown, "You haven't got any clue what I've had to do to get him to agree to this."

From the doctors grin Greg was pretty sure he didn't want to think about it either.

"Why do you _insist _on doing this John, nobody's grateful everyone will moan and complain, and argue..."

"If you gave gifts more often, it wouldn't be suck a shock to their system's Sherlock."

Sherlock was silenced and Lestrade gaped "That was amazing John, that my gift? Him being silenced?"

The shorter man chuckled, but Sherlock merely stayed silent, his glare darkening as John shook his head.

"No, this is" the doctor handed over what looked like a folder for a case file and Lestrade became wary again.

That was until he opened it and began reading, and then he nearly dropped the blasted thing in shock.

"Is... is this what... what I think it is?"

"It's a contract, well done Lestrade."

John shot him a look and the detective stopped talking again, with a sigh, waving an imperious hand for his flatmate to explain, which he did with a smile.

"You've been such a help this year that I thought I should get you something special for Christmas, especially when you saved me from a murder charge by letting me access the cold cases..."

The shaking in his hands lessened at the joke, and the DI even managed a shell-shocked smile as the doctor continued explaining the documents in his hands worth their weight in gold.

"That is a contract, signed by Sherlock, and it promises his help in three cases of your choice... No fee needs to be paid, and he will refrain from insulting or antagonising any member of your team, except in defence of himself."

"In other words, Lestrade, I'll keep my mouth shut, if they do."

His hands were shaking again, if this was a joke he's not sure his blood pressure could take it. Three cases where Sherlock co-operated? Really?

"In addition, he also promises not to withhold evidence, or to go off on his own and investigate under his own steam without informing you, unless there is a very real chance that doing so will loose the suspect."

The three men stood silent and Lestrade gaped at them, his eyes flickering between Sherlock's stormy gaze and John's utterly pleased one.

If he spoke he's stutter, he just knew it, and he nearly dropped the papers at the magnitude of this gift. What John had done to convince the man? Give him a temporary concussion maybe, forged his signature, also possible...

"If you loose those documents, I will not hold myself to them" Sherlock hissed, his tone sulky and Lestrade snapped back to himself, grinning like a maniac.

"Oh don't worry Sherlock, I'm photocopying them, and placing them in a number of safety deposit boxes... just in case they get pick pocketed from my desk draw."

He smirked at the detective's surprised expression and John's unrestrained laughter, before wishing them both a very Merry Christmas, and departing from the lobby of Scotland Yard for home, as swiftly as his feet would carry him and long before either man had been in a fit state to reply.

**

* * *

**

**Mrs Hudson**

When Mrs Hudson opened her front door to be faced with two shivering tenants, she immediately asked if the heating was broken in their flat.

"Not unless Sherlock hasn't told me something" John reassured her gently, and the old woman grinned as he continued, "No, we've just been out delivering presents and it's freezing out there, we've just got back but wanted to give you yours..."

"Oh John look at you getting Sherlock into the Christmas spirit! That's what it's all about, Sherlock, sharing!"

The detective rolled his eyes and she prepared to scold him when she realised that her two tenants had gotten her Christmas presents.

"It's not so much giving her the presents, John, as telling her what they are."

John looked embarrassed and Sherlock sighed, intriguing the old woman enough to stay silent for once and simply listen.

"John informed me that I make a ridiculous amount on noise with my experiments and violin Mrs Hudson-"

"You do dearie, at all hours of the day and night, now only last week-"

"SO!" Sherlock managed to interrupt the beginning of his landlady's waffle, "I'm having 221b sound proofed for you after Christmas, that should prevent my experiments and thoughts disturbing you sufficiently."

Mrs Hudson began tearing up and Sherlock had a distinct look of panic about him, so John coughed softly, drawing Mrs Hudson's attentions to him, "and I know how you keep worrying about the health factor of Sherlock keeping body parts up there, so I'm getting a new fridge for the flat, our resident scientist can keep body parts in the old one, and you can stop worrying about what you're going to find next..."

Mrs Hudson hugged him, a few tears escaping, "Oh you lads are the nicest tenants I've ever rented too!" she pulled back, and took in John's flushed embarrassment with a grin, "but..."

"I have promised not to use the new fried as an overflow."

Sherlock grumbled and she laughed "Honestly, Sherlock, sometimes I do wonder if you can read minds with that brain of yours..."

She studied the still shivering men for a moment, beaming at them brightly "I really can't thank you enough, such thoughtful gifts... but I'll start with some hot eggnog, come in, come in, it's freshly made."

John thanked her and began following her inside when he noticed Sherlock wasn't with him and turned to find the man still standing in the doorway with wide eyes.

"Sherlock?"

"The rum, John, don't you remember last time?"

"I couldn't get out to the shops for any appropriate alcohol, so I'm afraid it's a non-alcoholic version this evening!"

John grinned as Sherlock visibly relaxed and came into 221a with a sigh of relief. At least something had come from John's twelve Christmas presents. Sherlock was still willing to drink eggnog. Not much but, John thought as he wrapped his fingers round Sherlock's, any win was a good win when it came to Sherlock Holmes.

**

* * *

**

**Doctor John Watson**

The front door shut behind John and Sherlock leapt into action. Contrary to popular belief Sherlock could cook when he wanted to. It was just like any other science experiment after all. What prevented him from cooking well, and produced black sausages, mush instead of beans on toasts, and convinced the man that's the way it should be, was nothing more than boredom, lack of experience because everyone knows that food at home is completely different from food when eating out, and a perchance to want to experiment with the cooking process.

At least that's what he'd told himself before he'd planned this surprise, and proceeded to research the best way to make Christmas dinner.

John had just left to pick up Harry for Christmas day, honestly believing that they'd either be sitting down to microwave dinners, or some of Mrs Hudson's meal when he got back since he wouldn't have time to cook himself when he was picking up his sister.

Sherlock was determined to have everything ready to dish up onto plates, within ten minutes of their arrival, The Turkey was stuffed the night before, and he'd managed to get it in the oven before John woke, telling the doctor it was an experiment. John had been so tired he'd taken Sherlock at his word, and left the flat without comment.

The detective glanced around the kitchen slowly, thinking, before he swiftly proceeded to gather parsnips, potatoes, carrots and brussel sprouts to prepare.

This Christmas would be perfect; he'd make sure of it. John would never forget if he didn't.

**

* * *

**

Nearly an hour later, when the front door opened and John returned with a high pitched voice the consulting detective knew he was going to hate by the end of the day, the kitchen was filled with steam (better than smoke) and Sherlock looked a mess, (which was better than covered in food).

As far as he could tell, noting was burning either.

"Sherlock?"

The detective didn't answer, running over the recipe instructions in his mind and he heard John's familiar footsteps on the stairs.

"I'm back, Harry's with me..."

John's hair appeared round the kitchen door way, a look of surprise on his face and he simply blinked.

"Sherlock... have you, cooked, Christmas dinner?"

"Yes" he responded slowly, still frowning "But it's going to be later, it should be ready in about ten minutes, but in actuality it won't be for another half an hour or so... the recipes were inaccurate."

John grinned she shook his head "Christmas dinner is always later Sherlock" he ran his eyes over his partner's frazzled form, and the man in question felt their heat burn right through to his skin, his face flushing as he turned to stare at John.

The doctor swallowed and sighed "You'd better go and get a quick shower, and changed, I'll finish up here."

Sherlock moved across the small kitchen to press his lips to Johns, barely brushing a tongue across his partners' lips when the alcoholic sister reached the top of the stairs. It was 12.30, and she was already tipsy, and Sherlock could see very clearly how John's request that anything remotely resembling alcohol be removed from the house had not been an exaggeration.

"You must be Sherlock!"

"I need to change" he almost growled, stalking past the woman and ignoring her insulted mutterings. Sherlock merely grinned as he heard John explain.

"That's just what he's like, Harry, it's nothing personal..."

**

* * *

**

Dinner went well. John finished cooking and serving while Sherlock got cleaned up, and while far from perfect, it was the best Christmas John could remember having. If the turkey was more cardboard than meat, the potatoes more brick that roast, and the parsnips more buggered than burnt, nobody said anything, silently blamed the recipes, and complimented the chef.

John knew that Sherlock's Christmas present to him had been dinner, cooked for him so that they'd have a proper Christmas, so the last thing he'd expected when they sat down to open presents was a box shoved into his hands before anyone else had a chance to move to the small collection under the tree.

"Merry Christmas, John" Sherlock muttered, slumping into the sofa as though he couldn't care less, but John noticed the corner of his mouth tuck in as he bit the inside of his lip, and grinned before carefully opening the box.

It contained a stunning black wool coat, a little shorter than Sherlock's own coat, and equally as warm. John was speechless and Sherlock began babbling.

"I noticed you bough a longer coat, and it suited you, but it's been ridiculously cold this year so-"

He was stopped short as John threw a balled up piece of tissue paper at him laughing, "It's perfect Sherlock, and absolutely stunning, thank you!"

The consulting detective blushed and ducked his head, before remembering they had company, and bringing his eyes back up with a scowl and a swift, sharp nod.

"Well, I got you both the same thing, so you might as well open at once" Harry announced brightly, her voice still grating on Sherlock's nerves and threw a small lumpy present at them both, waving her hands to get them to unwrap swiftly.

The ghastly bobble hats that were revealed tested even Sherlock's control of his emotions and John managed to stutter over an unconvincing 'thank you' but, Sherlock noticed dryly, Harry Watson didn't seem to care much as she sat in an armchair laughing.

Like a machine gun. No wonder John hadn't stayed with her, that laugh could have set off flashbacks to Afghanistan immediately upon the doctors return to England.

John had gotten his sister a pair of leather gloves that she gushed over, she Sherlock smirked silently, knowing exactly how much his partner had spent on Mycroft, compared to his own sister. Sherlock had been given two instructions in regards to the gift giving on Christmas day. One, everyone got a gift, so Sherlock had to find something for Harry Watson, and two, it couldn't be alcohol.

So when Harry tore the paper from a large case of wine bottles, Sherlock didn't think John was going to give him a chance to explain from the black look he was receiving from his lover.

"I've not heard of this wine!" John sister announced loudly, making the detective wince. He'd be deaf for days, he knew it, "What's it like?"

"Non-alcoholic, third shelf on the left of the spirits isle in Asda" Sherlock deadpanned, and the room froze. John smothered a grin, and Harry looked like she wanted to throw the bottled at him, but after a moment smiled .

"Wonderful"

Sherlock grinned back. He could hear her teeth gritting. John's gift to Sherlock, while useful, and very welcome wasn't particularly inspired.

On the other hand, the top of the range microscope with a number of additional features was a huge improvement over the one he'd stolen from parts five years previous, so he'd beamed at John, drawn the blush he wanted and thanked him, surprising himself when he began fidgeting, wanting to go and test out the gift.

He was banned form doing so, and sulked through some awful film Harry had brought. Love Actually. Urg.

**

* * *

**

**Sherlock Holmes  
**

Harry went home in a taxi, and Sherlock could honestly say he'd never been more grateful to see someone leave. He'd take Mycroft over that woman any day, but he spoke not a word to John.

When John returned from seeing his sister to the taxi, he stood in the kitchen doorway for a moment before speaking.

"I've got a, uh, another gift for you Sherlock... one I didn't want to give you while Harry was still here" the doctor said softly, drawing Sherlock's gaze from the view at the bottom of his new microscope, and onto John's face.

"Hmm?"

John beckoned him over to the sofa and he took one last glance at the microscope before standing and joining his partner, where John handed him a leather bound book, the words printed on the front in gold foil said "The 24 Days of Christmas".

"You got me a song book?"

John laughed softly, his head thrown back in true amusement and Sherlock couldn't draw his eyes away from the expanse of neck bare to him until John calmed, and re-caught wandering eyes with his own twinkling blue.

"It's a customised photo album" John watched Sherlock's eyes narrow, as he became suspicious and began deducing, and the doctor simply smirked, "Stop working it out, and open it".

Sherlock took another moment to study his partner's confident gaze before he opened the book, the spine creaking as he revealed the first picture.

Sherlock, sitting on the sofa, watching TV, with a pear sitting right in front of his mouth. The first line of the poem was neatly penned in John's hand writing on the blank page to the left of the photograph, and he studied the page for a moment before moving on.

Page two, had a picture of their Christmas tree, the same one that sat innocently in the corner of the room, with a second photograph of the two turtle dove ornaments hanging from it. Sherlock remembered that day, and exactly how John had gotten him to agree to keep the tree.

He grinned, and watched John relax out of the corner of his eye. Once again the words of the poem were penned in John's own hand, and Sherlock found he absolutely adored the personal touch.

Page three had a picture of John, Mrs Hudson, and Sherlock sitting in the living room of 221b, laughing happily, and clearly drunk. Page four, a photograph of John's blog post on the case he'd found for Sherlock. Page five, a snapshot of Lestrade holding up the evidence of five wedding bands they'd needed.

Sherlock really needed to thank the photographer, because he'd managed to capture the look of pure adoration Sherlock remembered sending John at that moment.

There were no pictures of the two of them shooting geese on page six, but there was a captured moment when they'd been getting the birds out of the hired car, and the looked they'd shared between laughing had Sherlock's breath catching. Page seven, Sherlock barely remembered the swans, but there they were, swimming on the lake as he sat in thought, and John sat trying to keep warm in the freezing snow.

Eight... well the photographer could only be one of Mycroft's people now, only they would have come into the flat and photographed the whole fridge filled with milk. They were still over run with the stuff now.

Nine. Nine was Sherlock's favourite. Nine had quite a few photos, some of John at his dance lessons, and some of them dancing at Mycroft's Christmas party. Sherlock didn't even realise he was crying until John's fingers brushed them away.

Neither of them mentioned it, they both knew it would start an argument, so Sherlock simply turned to the next page.

Then Sherlock was laughing. Mycroft stood drenched, surrounded n water up to his ankles, clearly shouting at some plumber, and the camera man, purely by accident, managed to catch the pipe in the background exploding. It was pure genius, he'd have to send his mother a thank you card.

The intimate embrace they'd wrapped themselves in to watch the parade, and the eleven drummers that Sherlock had been so suspicious of, surprised Sherlock. He knew John wasn't fond of public displays, but his arms wrapped around John, and John's hands tugging at him, with Sherlock's head on his shoulder and nose against the doctors neck... It didn't belong in a photo album, as far as the consulting detective was concerned, this picture was... well, he sent John a heated look and the doctor grinned, before waving a hand at the book, insisting Sherlock continue with the last entry.

Sherlock knew. He knew what the last picture was going to be. There were pictures of the ballet, certainly, but he was still unprepared for an outsider's view of John and himself pressed together in a heated kiss.

* * *

****Smut Warning****

The shadows of their booth had hidden where their hands had been roaming, but Sherlock's breath was stolen at the hint of tongue escaping the cage of lips, and the expressions of pleasure plastered on their faces.

He closed the book with shaking hands and reverently placed it on the coffee table before turning on John, hands to his lovers' face he pulled him into a kiss to rival the photograph on page twelve, and ravished the doctor till they were both gasping for air, and Sherlock was practically lying on top of the man.

"You're perfectly wonderful" Sherlock told him as they tried to regain their breath and John blushed.

"Don't argue with me John, you know I'm always right."

The doctor laughed and grinned, "Right then."

Mouths met again slowly, and the men's eyes slipped shut as their bodies settled against each other comfortably, Sherlock lying between John's legs, pressed close to his partner and tongues probed mouths, testing and reaching and challenging each other, as teeth began nipping at lips, and hands began wandering.

As Sherlock raised himself onto his elbows and let his hands began wandering down John's neck he could feel the doctor's pulse thrumming beneath his fingertips, and followed the trail with his mouth, soft kissing and sharp nips began marking the skin as John shifting under the detective's weight, gasping in breaths as his neck tipped to one side to give Sherlock more access.

Sherlock only observed that John had managed to pull his shirt form his trousers when he felt the tips of the mans fingers brushing a line up his chest as he unbuttoned the fabric, and Sherlock groaned at the sparks Johns fingers left dancing over his skin, biting the doctor's neck firmly and drawing a sharp hiss and a sigh form the man beneath him.

It took very little time for Sherlock to be divested on his shirt, and John's jumper swiftly followed, neither of them keeping track of exactly where their clothing landed.

"John..." They met in another kiss, the heat rising between them when John hooked a leg round the back of Sherlock's and pushing their hips together tightly, drawing groans from them both. Sherlock repeated the motion, shifting slowly and drawing out the sensation as he relished in the shudder that travelled through John's and the brief glazed look his electric blue eyes gained.

The paused only briefly to shed the rest of their clothing, and then they were meeting again, falling back into the familiar positions on the sofa, and writhing at the heat from skin on skin contact. Sherlock slide his was down John's chest, his tongue flicking over nipples, and teeth nipping at ribs, and the detective spotted the trembling in his lovers body.

He smirked, pressed his short nails into John's sides, drawing a breathy hiss, and dragged himself back up his lovers body, pressing a deep kiss to the man's mouth, smothering the his cry as he felt John shudder his release.

Sherlock was studying him intently when John finally came back to himself, and he was suddenly determined to wipe the smug smile from his partners face. A firm jerk of his hips, had Sherlock's focus thrown and a wave of pleasure cross his currently unguarded features as John sat them both up slowly, arms wrapped round Sherlock as he nibbled Sherlock's ear, and waiting for the shiver he knew would come from the action.

John's hands wandered swiftly while his partners' attentions were diverted and swiped a hand over Sherlock's weeping head, drawing a strangled cry and John watched the worlds only consulting detective begin to loose his control right in front of his eyes.

"Dear gods, Sherlock" John gasped, he was already half hard again at the sight of his lover like this, and sliding to the floor John wasted no time replacing his hand with his mouth, tongue swirling over the head and making Sherlock gasp, his head thrown back in abandon and long fingers clenched firmly in John's hair, drawing a moan.

A moan he repeated more firmly once he had his throat filled with Sherlock, finally drawing absolute nonsense from the usually perfectly articulate mane before him. John sucked and moved back from Sherlock's cock slowly, before lowering his mouth back over the man, Sherlock was reduced to whimpers and nonsense words, occasionally muttering Johns name, and all it took was a well timed brush to the detective's balls for him to cry out sharply, hips bucking, and fill John's mouth.

The doctor swallowed, a thin trickle escaping down his chin, that he wiped off slowly as he sat up, knowing Sherlock was watching him. He smirked up at his lover, and Sherlock grinned back, dragging John back onto the sofa to straddle his hips as they reignited their kisses. He could taste himself in the doctor's mouth and he groaned, while John shuddered once again as his now hard cock pressed against the detective's stomach. Their hands continued to roam, nipping at each others bodies, and dragging nails across pale skin, like marking territory.

"Lube?"

"Under the sofa, Sherlock."

The detective blinked, distracted at the reply "When did that get put there?"

"After the last time we had to stop and go looking for it at a point like this" John lent down and snagged the bottle he'd put there a week previous, and sat back up with a grin "Now, shut up Sherlock, and lay down."

The detective didn't need to be told twice and laid back on the sofa again, pulling John down with him to the army doctor was laying on him and he could feel the mans arousal pressing into his stomach. Sherlock busied his mouth with placing a love bite high enough on the doctors' neck that the man wouldn't be able to hide it while he waited impatiently for the feel of the lube, his nerves impatiently waiting.

The first press of a finger was surprising, and like always the detective tensed, but John was already there, in him, stretching, flexing and then he brushed Sherlock's prostate and long fingers dug into the sofa with a soft whimper.

"Ah! ... More, John..."

Sherlock needn't have bothered, John was ahead of him, a second finger pushing past the body's barriers and leaving both men gasping in anticipation. John pressed against his lovers' sweet spot a couple more times as he prepared the man, and y the time the doctor was satisfied, Sherlock was squirming onto he sofa.

"Now, John, I want you now" the detective hissed drawing a shuddering groan from John, as he pressed a harsh kiss to his lovers mouth, his tongue sucked mercilessly into Sherlock as he pressed against the man.

He'd prepared himself while he'd made the detective writhe, and John was in his lover, held firmly by tensing muscles before either of them had expected it, and it feeling left them gasping. It always did, Sherlock was beginning to suspect it always would.

After a moment to regain some kind of self control, both men shifted at once, their eyes locking as John began shifting slowly in and out of his lovers' body, pulling Sherlock's legs to his shoulders and dragging a sharp cry from the man as the tip of John brushed against him once again.

The slow build of pressure was almost painful, and John bit his lip, determined to keep the slow dragging speed that was driving them both mad. Sherlock's hands were fisted in the sofa, his head throw back as he finally begged John to fuck him, just fuck him hard.

The sound of the worlds only consulting detective begging, lost John his control, hips snapped forward harshly.

"Oh gods, John, more, please."

"Sherlock..."

Slow rhythm was lost, and their movements became erratic and their cries harsher, their groans louder, Sherlock was writhing, and John smothered a trembling yell with a firm bite into his lovers collarbone as his vision flooded with pleasure, his hands shifting unconsciously stroking over Sherlock once, twice and the man gasped out his released, the tightening around John drawing another groan from the doctor before both men finally relaxed, collapsing together, their sweat coated bodies sticking slightly.

They lay, silent, Sherlock's legs cradling John, and the doctors' fingers trailing patterns across his lovers chest.

It was a long time before either of them moves, and then they simply shifted so they could wrap their arms around each other, as Sherlock pulled the blanket over them for warmth.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock"

"Yes, John, it is."

They could move later, clean up later. But not now. Christmas day was a time for spending it with the ones you love, and that's exactly what the two men in 221b Baker Street were going to do.


End file.
